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AN ARTIST'S HONOR 



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AN ARTIST’S HONOR 


OCTAVE FEUILLET 

H 

Of the Academie Frangaise 

AUTHOR OF “ THE ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN,” ETC. 


TRAN SLA TED BY E. P. ROBINS 



NEW YORK 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 4 106 Fourth Avenue 




Z 3 





Copyright, 

1890, 

By O. M. DUNHAM. 


All rights reserved. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

1. 

Pierre de Pierrepont, .... 

I 

II. 

Fabrice 

9 

III. 

Beatrice, 

• 15 

IV. 

‘'Those Young Ladies,” . 

26 

V. 

VlCOMTESSE D’AYMARET, 

42 

VI. 

Pierre’s Secret, .... 

57 

VII. 

Rivals 

91 

VIII. 

Marcelle, 

103 

IX. 

Gustave Calvat 

• 132 

X. 

News from the Baronne, 

150 

XI. 

“ Fin de Si£cle,” 

. 160 

XII. 

In a Box at the Theatre Fran^ais, 

177 

XIII. 

Passion, 


XIV. 

The Shooting-Match, 

217 

XV. 

An Artist’s Honor 

• 244 




AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


CHAPTER I. • 

PIERRE DE PIERREPONT. 

O NE of the most distinguished names of an- 
cient French history, that of the Odon de 
Pierrepont family, was borne, and worthily 
borne, about 1875, by the Marquis Pierre-Ar- 
mand, the last male descendant of his family, 
and at that time about thirty years of age. 
He was a man whose grave and attractive feat- 
ures, manly grace, and calm and unstudied dig- 
nity of bearing spontaneously elicited this trite 
formula of admiration: “He has the manner 
of a Prince.” Indeed it would have been diffi- 
cult to imagine him seated at a desk, measuring 
off silk in a shop, or pursuing any occupation 
whatever, unless it might be that of the soldier 
or the diplomat, the only two occupations suita- 
ble for princes. The Marquis de Pierrepont 
had, however, appeared in uniform in the war 
of 1870, and had displayed the most brilliant 
courage ; then he had quietly returned to his 
former life of a Parisian and dilettante, some- 


1 


2 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


what from the liking that he had for it and 
from his want of ambition ; somewhat, also, out 
of regard for an aunt of his, who was not well- 
disposed toward the Republic. 

This aunt, the Baronne de Montauron, an 
Odon de Pierrepont by birth and excessively 
proud of her origin, was a widow ; she was child- 
less, and did not regret the circumstance, as 
thereby she was enabled to dispose in her 
nephew’s favor of the great wealth that had 
been left her by her husband; in this manner 
she would repair the somewhat waning fortune 
and splendor of her house. The Pierreponts, 
while not exactly ruined, had, in fact, for two 
generations past, been declining to a condition 
of what might be called straitened circumstan- 
ces, regard being had to the cost of living at the 
time. The young Marquis had realized from 
his father’s inheritance only fifteen to eighteen 
thousand francs of yearly income ; that was suf- 
ficient to yield him an independent living, but 
even when supplemented by the small addition 
which his aunt made to it in shape of Christ- 
mas presents, it did not amount to much for a 
man bearing the name that he did and repre- 
senting a family of great noblemen. Mme. de 
Montauron, who possessed in her own right an 
income of nearly four hundred thousand francs, 
might doubtless have anticipated the moment 


PIERRE DE PIERREPONT. 


3 


of her death to gild afresh the scutcheon of her 
nephew, but if she had within her soul a passion 
that was stronger than pride of lineage, it was 
selfishness. Though wounded in her pride by 
the life which her nephew’s scanty resources 
obliged him to lead, she could not prevail upon 
herself to remedy this state of affairs during her 
life-time by making the smallest sacrifice to her 
own personal comforts. She was then fifty-five 
years old. Basing her calculation upon certain 
mortuary statistics taken from the lives of her 
ancestors, she reckoned that she had still ap- 
proximately before her thirty years of life. The 
humiliation of seeing the last male representa- 
tive of her line reduced to comparative penury 
for so long a space of time was extremely dis- 
tressing to her, but the idea of selling her hotel 
in the Rue de Varennes, or her Chateau des 
Genets, or anything else, no matter what, in 
order to assist him in his straits, was still more 
unendurable. To conciliate these clashing 
sentiments and enrich her nephew without im- 
poverishing herself, the only practicable ex- 
pedient was to secure for him some rich heiress 
for a wife, and such was the end that Mme. de 
Montauron was aiming at, at the moment when 
this history opens. 

She might have feared that her handsome 
nephew, as she called him, who was petted and 


4 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


made much of in polite society, particularly 
among the ladies, would not show any very 
great inclination to abandon the freedom of 
bachelorhood in order to subject himself to the 
constraints of wedded life. It is quite often a 
subject of remark, however, that men who, by 
their personal charm, are best equipped for femi- 
nine conquest, are not those who place the high- 
est value upon it. Somewhat indifferent to suc- 
cesses that are gained with too great ease, they 
have generally neither the conceit nor the rage 
of gallantry of those who have to triumph over 
nature in order to produce an impression upon 
women. His appearance was responsible for 
many adventures being attributed to the Mar- 
quis de Pierrepont, and although his discretion 
forbade him to admit any of them to be true, 
there were probably quite a number that might 
have been authenticated. In reality, however, 
he was not a libertine ; on the contrary, there was 
in his character a fund of gravity and dignity 
that was beginning to tire of young bachelor 
life. 

He was discussing this subject one evening 
with one of his friends, the painter Jacques 
Fabrice, to whose room he sometimes went upon 
leaving his club to drink a cup of tea and smoke 
a cigarette. 

“My dear friend,” said he, in a melancholy 


PIERRE DE PIERREPONT. 


5 


voice, “do you know what is happening me? I 
am entering to-day upon my thirty-first year.” 

“That is a glorious time of life,” said the 
painter, who was sketching by the light of his 
great lamp. 

“It is a fine time, no doubt,” replied M. de 
Pierrepont ; “it is the time when a man’s facul- 
ties are at their best, but at the same time it is 
a critical, a decisive period in life, and espec- 
ially in the life of an unoccupied man and a 
mere dilettante like myself. I am standing on 
the dividing line between youth and maturity; 
if I carry with me into maturity the passions 
and the habits of youth, it is impossible to blind 
myself to the future that is in store for me. I 
believe that I know what is due to honor and 
good taste ; I have an innate dislike for all that 
is false and base, — and yet, in spite of every- 
thing, if I abandon myself to chance at this criti- 
cal moment, I behold before me a future that 
shocks all my inherent delicacy of feeling. I 
behold upon my horizon the amours of a man 
beyond his prime, an artificial youthfulness 
obstinately defying all the warnings and all the 
humiliations of approaching old age, operations 
of hair-dying and face-enamelling carried on be- 
hind locked doors, and a thousand other things 
of the same sort to which friends just as punc- 
tilious as I am have ended by pitifully resign- 


6 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


ing themselves. Well, my dear fellow, there is 
no use in wasting time thinking, — I see no other 
way to avoid this dismal future than to follow 
the custom of our forefathers — .” 

“Ah! ah!” ejaculated Fabrice. 

“Just so!” continued Pierre, “I must marry. 
Mon Dieu ! I know that marriage is not de- 
void of inconveniences, cares, dangers even, — 
but then it is the best course that a man can 
adopt who wishes to grow old and die reputa- 
bly when his hair gets gray.” 

The painter heaved a deep sigh and was 
silent. 

“Pardon me,” said Pierre. “This is a painful 
subject for you ; I should not have forgot- 
ten it.” 

“My personal experience in that direction 
has certainly been a very sad one,” the artist 
answered ; “but that matters nothing. I made 
a foolish marriage, — but I have nothing to re- 
gret, since my daughter is left to me.” 

“Exactly,” Pierre resumed, “you have your 
daughter; — that is the kind of affection, of 
preoccupation, that serves to divert a man’s 
mind from his everlasting hankering after fem- 
ininity and that sets well upon the period of 
matured life. It is a pleasant sight to behold 
a father who is still young accompanying his 
children in their blithe morning walk. — Well! 


PIERRE DE PIERREPONT . 


7 


what would you have, my friend? You will 
laugh at my frankness ; — but I have a kind of 
vague longing to possess, once in my life, the 
love of an honest woman. ” 

The painter’s eyes had wandered from his 
drawing for an instant, and dwelt with a slightly 
wondering sympathy upon the Marquis’s hand- 
some features. 

“In a word,” said he, “you are thinking of 
attempting a second manner; you wish to learn 
if there may not chance to exist a kind of love 
of superior quality to what we are accustomed 
to call the Parisian article?” 

“Precisely so.” 

“Well, what is wanting to enable you to real- 
ize this honorable dream?” 

“A wife,” said Pierre. 

“But it seems to me that with your name, 
your connections, your future prospects and, if 
I may venture to say so, your personal advan- 
tages, you will have no difficulty in finding a 
wife when you want one.” 

“Not when / want one, but when my aunt 
does.” 

“Have you not told me that your aunt de- 
sired for you as early a marriage as possible?” 

“As wealthy a marriage as possible,” said the 
Marquis, accenting his words with a tinge of 
bitterness. “It is my aunt’s notion that as 


8 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


marriage is nothing more than a mere lottery, 
we should look only to the dowry and leave all 
the rest to chance. That is not altogether my 
idea. Do not misunderstand me, however. I 
am not in a condition to despise a good round 
rent-roll, but I should desire tlie woman whom 
I may marry to give me some other assurances 
of happiness and honor — unquestionable assur- 
ances, too. You know how young girls are 
brought up nowadays; it is frightful. It is for 
that reason that my marriage, although we are 
both very desirous of it, my aunt and I, con- 
tinues to be a problematical affair . — A propos y 
when are you coming to the Genets? My aunt 
asks in her last letter when she is to look for 
you.” 

“After the fifteenth of August I shall be dis- 
engaged and at her command.” 

“Bravo! — You have never seen my aunt, I 
think?” 

“Never — not even in my dreams,” replied the 
painter. 

“I believe I told you that her portrait would 
be — I was on the point of saying that it would 
be an ungrateful commission.” 

“I will try and do my best.” 

“Your merit will be only so much the 
greater ! Au revoir ! ” 

And they parted. 


CHAPTER II. 

FABRICE. 

D OES there exist in the artist’s special art, 
in his lonely and somewhat prison-like ex- 
istence, in his unceasing search for a certain 
higher standard of beauty, some hidden virtue 
that tends to elevate his moral being? I cannot 
say, but it seems to me that more frequently 
than elsewhere there are found in the studios 
of the painters those gentle, serious intellects, 
those lofty, simple and upright hearts that con- 
stitute some of the types that make us think 
more highly of human nature. Without de- 
scending into inordinate particulars upon this 
general observation, I do not believe that there 
exist in all the world nobler hearts than those 
of some artists that I have known. 

Jacques Fabrice’s origin was of the humblest. 
His father, a petty clerk in one of the muni- 
cipal offices of Paris, had died young, but only 
after having lived long enough to do all that 
lay in his power to thwart his son’s precocious 
inclination toward the painter’s art. His 
mother took in work from a large manufactory 


9 


10 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


of artificial flowers; gifted with more delicate 
instincts, she furtively encouraged the boy’s 
tastes. Left alone with him to care for, she 
soon made herself acquainted with all the forms 
of artistic instruction that Paris has to offer to 
the needy and placed her son in a position to 
profit by them. When about fifteen, Jacques 
began to contribute his share toward the ex- 
penses of the household by painting signs in 
his intervals of study. It is said that it was 
while he was decorating the front of a little 
tavern at Meudon that one of the first painters 
of the time saw him and took a warm interest 
in him ; not only did he receive him into his 
atelier, where he watched his progress with lov- 
ing care, but two years subsequently he made 
him his companion in a trip to Italy. Fabrice’s 
mother experienced the delight of witnessing 
her son’s early successes, who was partly in- 
debted to her for his talent and wholly indebted 
to her for those distinguishing qualities that 
often characterize men who have been reared 
by a widowed mother, that admixture of gentle- 
ness and strength which recall in a touching 
manner their double role of protector and pro- 
tected. 

It was not, however, until after his admirable 
display at the Salon of 1875 that Jacques Fab- 
rice’s reputation burst upon the public; until 


FABRICR. 


II 


that time it had been confined to a narrow cir- 
cle of brother artists, connoisseurs and dealers. 
His slow and scrupulously conscientious man- 
ner of working, his exacting taste, his horror 
of incompleteness, his artistic sense of honor, 
in a word, had for a long time retarded the 
brilliant and definitive development of his 
talent. 

At the beginning of his career, moreover, he 
had had to contend with sorrows that almost 
proved too heavy for his endurance. At the 
age of twenty-two, deluded by his imagination, 
he had married the sister of one of his studio 
companions; she was a rather pretty little 
thing, with a look about her that reminded one 
of Greuze's pictures, and like Jacques’ mother, 
she was a worker on artificial flowers. He used 
to see her working industriously at her window, 
and she appeared to him the very image of con- 
tentment and all the domestic virtues. It was 
a pleasing dream to think of associating his 
poor little neighbor to his growing fortune, and 
so he married her. Whatever an intelligence 
of the highest order, a soul of the most deli- 
cate perceptions, can suffer from the contact in 
permanency of vulgarity of mind and baseness 
of heart, that he had to endure at the hands of 
this small pretty creature. Incapable of identi- 
fying herself with the artist’s lofty ambitions, 


12 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


she never ceased reproaching him, with the cries 
and lamentations of a fury, with the time that 
he devoted to his sketches and the slowness of 
his work, urging him to a hasty production that 
would bring money in more rapidly. She even 
brought unscrupulous dealers to his atelier dur- 
ing his absence and sold them unfinished pic- 
tures, to the great despair of the wretched artist. 
The only meritorious thing that she ever did 
was to die after seven or eight years, leaving a 
daughter who, fortunately, did not resemble 
her mother. 

The young Marquis de Pierrepont, whose 
dilettantism interested itself equally in sport- 
ing affairs and in matters pertaining to Art, 
and who was an equally good judge of both, 
was among the first to prognosticate the 
great future that lay before Jacques Fabrice. 
They had made each other’s acquaintance 
during the siege of Paris. They had be- 
longed to the same company of a marching 
regiment, and had been in hospital together 
after the battle of Chatillon. Subsequent to 
these relations, Pierrepont visited Fabrice at 
his studio; from that time forth he constituted 
himself the advocate of a talent that was as yet 
unknown or contested. In this way there had 
grown up between them a close intimacy, as 
confiding as it could be between two men 


FABRICE. 


13 


who both were proud and reserved by nature, 
whatever, in one as well as in the other, 
might be the concealed impulse of their pas- 
sions. 

For several years Pierre de Pierrepont had 
been vainly trying to prevail upon his aunt, 
Mme. de Montauron, to have her portrait 
painted by Fabrice, guaranteeing the excellence 
of the likeness ; he insinuated that it would con- 
fer an honor upon her, and at the same time 
would be very economical, to be one of the first 
to recognize an artist who was destined to be 
very famous. 

“I will wait for the great fame,” she replied. 
“I do not care to break the ice.” 

Fabrice’s display in 1875, with his “Recrea- 
tion at the Convent,” his “Washer-women on the 
Yvette,” and his “Portrait of Lady S., surnamed 
the Lady with the Necklace,” was an undoubted 
triumph, which at last decided Mme. de Mon- 
tauron to yield to the urgency of her nephew 
and favor with her protection a man who no 
longer stood in need of it. After discussing 
the matter with Pierrepont, she invited the 
painter to come and pass a few weeks at her 
country place, the Genets, in the course of the 
summer, where she could sit to him for her por- 
trait more conveniently and with less liability 
to interruption. 


14 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


As we have already seen, Jacques Fabrice 
was consequently to proceed toward the end of 
August to the Chateau des Genets, in the de- 
partment of the Orne, there to meet the Mar- 
quis de Pierrepont, who was to go there imme- 
diately after the Deauville races. 


CHAPTER III. 

BEATRICE. 

T HE Baronne de Montauron, to whom, hav- 
ing made him acquainted with Pierrepont, 
we now introduce the reader, was an exceed- 
ingly bright woman, but entirely devoid of 
sensibility; she had found the way, however, 
to create for herself a reputation for goodness 
of heart by receiving into her family a young 
orphan, a remote connexion of her husband, 
who occupied the position of reader, sick-nurse, 
and also, to some extent, of chamber-maid. 
Beatrice de Sardonne was daughter to the 
Comte de Sardonne, whose racing stable was 
responsible for half his ruin, and speculations on 
the Bourse for the remainder. He had died, 
leaving his daughter with an income of a thou- 
sand francs ; that meant destitution or else the 
convent. Mme. de Montauron, increasing in 
years and sickly, had been thinking for some 
time of taking a young lady companion to alle- 
viate the burthen of her solitude and her infirm- 
ities. She was desirous that this young lady 
companion should be of good appearance, so as 
not to reflect discredit on the house ; she was de- 


15 


i6 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


sirous that she should have a good disposition 
(and it is very certain that the poor girl would 
need it). Finally, she wanted her to be pretty, 
so that her presence might serve to attract the 
men, whose society the Baronne particularly 
affected. Mile, de Sardonne appeared to fulfill 
these various requirements to perfection ; she 
was of good birth, more than ordinarily distin- 
guished in appearance, and extremely pretty ; — 
she was even a little too pretty to suit the 
Baronne, but then there was always something 
that had to be overlooked. She was a rather 
tall person, but particularly noticeable for the 
dignity of her air. She possessed the rather 
high shoulders of the women of her family, dark 
blue eyes, a complexion that bordered on olive, 
with two dimples in the cheeks that showed 
themselves when she smiled, which was but sel- 
dom. Naturally her toilette was very simple 
and seldom varied : it was almost always a plain 
black silk dress, without ornaments — sometimes, 
since she had put off mourning, a dress of golden- 
green silk that set off the contour of her splen- 
did bust and at her every motion flashed back 
gleams of light like a soldier’s breast-plate. 
She was very reserved, only speaking to reply 
with brief politeness to questions addressed to 
her. She obeyed the frequently mortifying 
orders and the tyrannical caprices of the Ba- 


BEA TRICE. 


17 


ronnc patiently, or at least with imperturbable 
equanimity : a vertical crease in her forehead 
between her arched eye-brows, which some- 
times became more prominently marked, alone 
bore witness to her soul’s revolt against her 
almost servile situation. 

This beautiful creature, so abounding in 
charm and mystery, had, as may be readily be- 
lieved, numerous and not always very delicate 
admirers among the friends, young or old, of 
the household. Her serious correctness of 
manner, her cold reserve, quickly discouraged 
these equivocal tributes of admiration. It may 
be that in the ingenuousness of her soul and in 
the consciousness of her beauty, she at first be- 
lieved that a portion of this homage was dic- 
tated by sincere feeling and honorable inten- 
tions, but with the keen, quick intuition of a 
woman she had very early been convinced that 
all those suitors by whom she was surrounded 
aspired to everything except her hand. This 
conviction, that she had seen confirmed day by 
day during the two years that she had been liv- 
ing with Mme. de Montauron, had added to 
the sadness of the unhappy orphan a settled 
feeling of bitter contempt. Even although she 
had not been the virtuous girl that she was, 
moreover, Mile, de Sardonne had a defence 
stronger than contempt, stronger perhaps than 


1 8 AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 

even honor itself, against the more or less openly 
avowed enterprises of which she was the ob- 
ject : her heart was no longer in her own pos- 
session. It is very seldom that a young girl 
has not selected, even from earliest childhood, 
in the secret chambers of her imagination, the 
man that she would like to marry were her 
choice in such a matter dependent on her own 
free-will. There is almost always, indeed, 
among her family or social acquaintance some 
one man who rises pre-eminently above all 
others and fills in every particular the ideal that 
a young girl may picture to herself of a hus- 
band, that is to say, of a lover, for at that happy 
age the two words are yet synonymous. Bea- 
trice de Sardonne was barely twelve years old 
when she was struck by the exceptionally warm 
reception that was accorded by ’her own family 
and by the world in which she moved to a 
young neighbor of theirs in the country, whom 
they met at Paris in the gay winter season. It 
was plain to the child’s understanding that her 
aunts, her cousins, and even her dear mother 
herself were more than usually agitated when- 
ever the young man’s name was announced. 
The conversation, which, in the quiet of the 
country, sometimes languished, even among 
women, suddenly became animated. It was 
evident that the approach of the expected 


BEA TRICE. 


19 


guest aroused an agreeable effervescence in all 
those feminine breasts ; they posted themselves 
at the windows, as if they would hasten his arri- 
val, and finally, when Pierre de Pierrepont ap- 
peared with his prince-like air, driving his high- 
stepping horse along the road that encircled 
the lawn, the ladies ran to the front-door with 
beaming faces, while Mile. Beatrice, observing 
matters through the foliage, herself felt within 
her young heart a certain small emotion pro- 
portioned to her age. 

The child’s impressions, growing with her 
growth, had assumed from year to year a deeper 
and more well considered character. To so- 
ciety at large the Marquis de Pierrepont stood 
as a type of gallant and charming manhood, but 
he was something more than that in Beatrice’s 
eyes: for her education, her tastes, even her 
prejudices, disposed her to set on high in her 
admiration, far beyond all others, this gracious 
gentleman, this lordly being, who seemed 
moulded from a finer clay than the rest and 
especially formed for noble occupations and ele- 
gant leisure, for love, war, the chase. In this 
manner Mile, de Sardonne’s feeling for Pierre 
de Pierrepont had little by little developed to 
the point of adoration, an adoration that the 
young girl guarded jealously within the deepest 
sanctuary of her heart, and of which Pierrepont 


20 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


did not for a moment suspect the existence, 
holding as he did for little girls of her age all 
the disdain of men of his. 

Beatrice was about sixteen years old when 
her parents, seeing themselves on the brink of 
the gulf in which the remainder of their fortune 
was to be buried, abruptly retired from the 
world, preserving relations with only two or 
three intimate friends. The Marquis de Pierre- 
pont, after several ineffectual attempts to break 
in on their retirement, had considered it his 
duty to insist no further, and had lost sight of 
them until the time when he learned of the final 
crash, and soon after that, of their death. He 
did not meet Beatrice again until she had domi- 
ciled herself with Mme. de Montauron in the ca- 
pacity of poor relation, companion and scullion. 
He was far from suspecting that he had been 
in some measure, and probably even wholly, 
influential in the selection that Mile, de Sar- 
donne had made of Mme. de Montauron’s 
house in preference to a convent, but he was of 
too generous a nature not to be touched by 
misfortune, even had it presented itself in less 
attractive shape. It was evident that he 
studied, by showing her his personal considera- 
tion, to alleviate the orphan’s humiliating con- 
dition ; but at the same time he seemed to shun 
all intimacy with her, and whether it was that 


BE A TRICE. 


21 


he distrusted her or himself, habitually evinced 
a reserve that bordered on constraint. 

Such were the mutual relations between these 
two persons when Pierrepont arrived at the 
Chateau des Genets in the summer of 1875, 
where he preceded by a few days his friend 
Fabrice. 

The Genets was an old patrimonial posses- 
sion of the Pierreponts, which had been sold 
and partially restored in the days of the revolu- 
tion. After the expiration of more than half a 
century, the Baron de Montauron, at the urgent 
request of his wife, whose very humble servant 
he was, had bought back the land at a very 
high price and restored the buildings. All that 
remained of the old castle was a fine, square, 
crenelated tower that had been fantastically 
shut in between two piles of modern masonry, 
an old chapel with a belfry that imparted pic- 
turesqueness to the entrance of the main court- 
yard, and a wide moat that had been laid out 
as gardens. The general aspect, notwithstand- 
ing its irregularity, was not wanting in gran- 
deur. Great avenues of beeches, a park, and 
woods through which flowed a tributary of the 
Orne contributed to give to this mansion what 
it is customary to call a seigniorial appearance. 

Mme. de Montauron, who abominated soli- 
tude, was very glad to exercise a lavish hospi- 


22 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


tality at the Genets while the season lasted, but 
having once determined that the year 1875 was 
to behold the end of the tergiversation and 
bachelorhood of her nephew, she had materi- 
ally widened the circle of her invitations and 
addressed herself with particular care to the 
construction of her list. She had admitted to 
it a more than usually large proportion of girls 
from the world of finance, French and cosmo- 
politan as well, counting upon the familiarity 
of chateau life to bring to maturity circum- 
stances that she desired. On the other hand, 
she dispensed as far as was possible with young 
married women, especially if pretty, so that the 
attention of the neophyte might not be dis- 
tracted by considerations of minor importance. 

Pierrepont found at the Genets, therefore, to 
bid him welcome, half a dozen artless creatures, 
very agreeable to look upon, and who, notwith- 
standing their artlessness, seemed to have a 
tolerably clear idea of the situation. They be- 
haved, at least, as if they had been in the 
Baronne’s secret and were in complicity with 
her, competing, each in her own small way, to 
make hers the successful candidacy. And that 
was natural enough. The husband that they 
were on the alert to conquer was not only a 
man of rare personal seductiveness, he was 
heir presumptive to a great fortune and had a 


b£a trice. 


23 


Marquise’s crown to dispose of. That was suffi- 
cient justification for the display of toilettes, 
of graces, of candor, of tomboyishness, or of 
affected indifference in which the young com- 
petitors strove to emulate each other. 

It followed as a natural result that there was 
a good deal of gayety at the Genets. Those 
young ladies with their relatives, a few broth- 
ers and some friends and acquaintances of the 
neighborhood, constituted a very brilliant and 
lively society, which abandoned itself with zest 
to all the customary amusements of country 
life : driving and horse-back riding, fishing par- 
ties on the river in the park while waiting for 
the hunting season to open, lawn-tennis in the 
court on the lawn, and in the evening innocent 
games, music and dancing. Mme. de Montau- 
ron, who hated silence because it made her 
think of death, liked to see all this stir and bus- 
tle going on around her, but she took only a 
small part in it personally, being troubled by 
her rheumatism. From her wheeled-chair, 
where she queened it with a certain great-lady- 
like dignity of manner, sometimes in her draw- 
ing-room, sometimes beneath the trees of the 
park, it gave her pleasure to behold all these 
young people with their elegant toilets and 
equipages, enjoying themselves and forming a 
sort of small court for her, and to watch the 


24 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


phaetons and four-in-hands as they passed, 
bright with charming dresses and gay laughter. 

To Mile, de Sardonne the spectacle afforded 
less pleasure. Aside from the very rare occa- 
sions when Mme. de Montauron made up her 
mind to drive and took her reader with her, 
she kept her at her side in the house for alleged 
reasons of propriety. Poor Beatrice, therefore, 
had no part in the festal and luxurious life that 
was going on beneath her eyes, and upon which, 
too, she felt that her plain, unvarying toilet 
would have cast a blot and would have shamed 
her. She herself had been brought up to lead 
the easy life of the upper class, and like most 
of the young girls of her set, she had the pas- 
sionate taste and the rather narrow devotion for 
the elegant pleasures of out-door life. Hers 
was a noble spirit, rather than a superior intelli- 
gence ; she was proud, but not at all philosophi- 
cal, and under the dimple of her pretty smile 
there often lay concealed a bitter sense of hard- 
ship. As she watched the amazons and their 
attendant cavaliers disappearing along the 
shaded avenues, her forehead remained un- 
clouded, but her heart was lacerated. 

Pierrepont’s arrival at the chateau was the 
cause to her of most bitter suffering, for Mme. 
de Montauron had had her reasons for keeping 
her reader well informed as to her plans and 


b£a trice. 


2 5 


matrimonial intentions toward her nephew. 
Beatrice, to do her justice, since the ruin of her 
family had given up all hope that her feelings 
might some day be reciprocated by the Mar- 
quis de Pierrepont and sanctioned by marriage. 
Her reason told her that he was lost to her for- 
ever, that nothing less than a miracle could ever 
bring them together, but still, as long as Pierre- 
pont remained unmarried, that miracle might 
happen and the dream, in its indefiniteness, still 
retained its charm. And now it was all ended ; 
the blissful prospect was about to close for- 
ever. It was only too evident to Beatrice that 
the event that she had looked forward to with 
such dread was close at hand. Everything an- 
nounced it. Mme. de Montauron, as she her- 
self told her dependent, was playing for big 
stakes this time, and the young man seemed to 
lend himself to her schemes with a willingness 
that rendered the result not doubtful. 

It is difficult to imagine a more cruel and a 
more refined torture for a woman than that 
which was thus imposed upon Mile, de Sar- 
donne; brilliant rivals were competing with 
each other for the heart and hand of the man 
that she herself had ardently loved ever since 
her early childhood, and she was compelled to 
be present and look upon the tournament with 
a smile upon her face. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“those young ladies.” 

I T was of a Monday that Pierrepont had ar- 
rived at the Genets. On the following Sun- 
day afternoon he slipped away from the society 
of the guests of the chateau, who had made up 
walking and fishing parties after breakfast and 
gone out, and directed his steps to the nearest 
railway station, there to meet Fabrice and bring 
him back and present him to his aunt. They 
found Mme. de Montauron knitting in a great 
drawing-room with white doors and window- 
frames, tete-k-tete with the family portraits and 
with Mile, de Sardonne, who was reading a 
newspaper to her. The painter did not have to 
look at them twice to come to the conclusion 
that, had the choice been his, it would not be 
the Baronne’s portrait that he would have 
painted. He had no great reason to congratu- 
late himself, though, on the reception accorded 
him by the young girl, who, without rising, 
gave him a wearied and almost hostile look and 
kept on with the reading of her journal in a low 
26 


" Those young ladies." 27 

Voice while Fabrice was exchanging compli- 
ments with the mistress of the house. 

“I am very happy to make your acquain- 
tance, sir,” said the Baronne, with her most 
gracious manner, “and very proud that I am to 
have my portrait from your brush. It will not 
be much of a treat to you to paint an old 
woman like me — ” 

“Madame !” 

“But you paint landscapes as well. There 
are some very pretty ones about here. That 
will be a consolation for you.” 

“Madame la Baronne, I assure you that I 
shall not need it.” 

“Do you permit your sitters to talk while 
posing? — It does not disturb you?” 

“Not at all, Madame. On the contrary, it is 
a help to us in getting at the expression of 
countenance.” 

“Ah ! so much the better, for I am naturally 
a great talker. Is not that so, Beatrice?” 

“I have no reason to complain, Madame,” said 
Beatrice, with a slight smile. 

“You see, sir, she has no reason to com- 
plain, but she does not deny it.” 

The tramp of horses, accompanied by an 
uproarious sound of talking and laughing, an- 
nounced the return of the equestrians, who came 
tumbling into the court pell-mell with the fish- 


28 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


ing party. Three or four young women dis- 
mounted, and holding up with one hand the 
skirts of their habits, which were of more decent 
length than they are in these days, they came 
trooping up the steps and into the house, where 
they presented their foreheads to the Baronne 
to be kissed : others, in light, short morning 
dress rushed in after them, waving over their 
heads with a triumphant air their little scoop- 
nets, from which emanated an overwhelming 
odor of fish and slime that filled the apartment. 

“Gracious! It is horrible!” exclaimed the 
Baronne. “Beatrice, my smelling-bottle, quick! 
And then, my dear, relieve these young ladies 
of their nets and take them to the kitchen.” 

“Pardon me, aunt,” said the Marquis, seizing 
the nets rather roughly, “ I will attend to it.” 

Fabrice, who was very observant, both by na- 
ture and by reason of his profession, remarked 
that at this the reader paled slightly and that, 
from a contrary cause, the Baronne’s cheeks 
were suffused with red. 

As Pierre, after depositing the nets in the 
kitchen, was escorting the artist to the apart- 
ment that had been reserved for him : 

“Who is that young girl,” inquired Fabrice, 
“who was reading the paper to your aunt?” 

“Mile, de Sardonne — a relative — a poor girl 
that my aunt has taken in.” 


THOSE YOUNG LADIES. 


29 


“You never mentioned her to me?” 

“No? — Really? — It is very possible. Per- 
haps it was because it never occurred to me. 
How do you like her?” 

“She is interesting.” 

“Isn’t she? Yes, she is interesting, poor 
girl ! Here is your little room, my dear fellow.” 

He showed his friend into an apartment con- 
sisting of a bed-room and a small sitting-room, 
the cheerful comfort of which elicited much 
praise from Fabrice, and then left him to dress 
for dinner. 

In the course of the evening the painter, 
whose interest in Beatrice was constantly 
deepening by reason of her beauty and her man- 
ner, like that of a captive queen, endeavored to 
question Pierrepont further upon the situation, 
the antecedents and the character of this mys- 
terious person, but he did not persist, perceiving 
by the curt answers of the Marquis that the 
subject, if not disagreeable to him, was indiffer- 
ent even to the point of ennui. 

“Never mind my aunt’s reader,” he said, 
laughing, to Fabrice. “She has nothing to do 
with the case. If you wish- to make yourself 
particularly agreeable to me, look after these 
young ladies; study them at leisure and let me 
know what you think of them. In every re- 
spect I have the highest confidence in your 


3 ° 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


taste and your sagacity. You may be of assist- 
ance to me in making a selection to which I 
must soon make up my mind, if I am to remain 
on good terms with my aunt. You see that she 
has convoked all France and the two Ameri- 
cas — it will not please her if she has incurred 
all this trouble for nothing. Try, then, and see 
what you can read in the eyes and in the hearts 
of all these young sphinxes. If a painter has 
no skill in reading physiognomy, who the devil 
has?” 

“My dear friend,” Fabrice replied, “you could 
not come to a worse person. I do not know if 
all my confreres are like me in this respect, — 
but, speaking for myself, I am a detestable 
physiognomist, and I am convinced that my 
ideas as regards psychological diagnosis are all 
wrong. I have no notion of what is really pass- 
ing in the mind of the man or the woman whose 
portrait I am painting; I very likely attribute 
to them a host of thoughts, passions, virtues and 
vices that are entirely unknown to them. Just 
look at the models of our studios : concert- 
hall singers giving us our heads of the Ma- 
donna — street girls without two ideas in their 
pates, heads of muses — drunkards from the bar- 
rier, heads of saints and apostles. The reason of 
this is that all physiognomies are subjective to 
us; we behold in them what we put there, what 


“ THOSE YOUNG LADIES 3 T 

they inspire us with. Artists, like poets, I sup- 
pose, are dupes and children, — and it is right 
that they should be so. They are the very 
worst persons in the world to sit in judgment 
upon the relations between the physical being 
and the moral, for they do not paint what they 
see, but what they imagine that they see. 
They do not paint nature, they paint after 
nature, which is not the same thing at all !” 

“But then they do not produce a likeness !” 
said Pierrepont. 

“Pardon me, that is just the curious thing 
about it — they do make a likeness! They even 
make more than a likeness, for while faithfully 
reproducing the material lines of a face, they 
transfigure its expression. There is no human 
face that has not its little note of poetry, its 
gleam of light, for him who knows how to bring 
it out ; but do not look for that note or that 
gleam in the soul of the model ; it is not there, 
or at least has never been discovered ! It exists 
in the eye of the painter, just as all the charms 
and all the graces of a mistress most frequently 
have their existence in the eye of the lover. 
And so, dear friend, do not reckon upon my 
lights to guide you in your delicate researches; 
I should really fear to lead you astray. It will 
give me great pleasure, however, to be pre- 
sented to those young ladies, although I am 


32 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


terribly afraid of them ; only I will beg you to 
put off the ceremony until to-morrow — I am a 
little tired to-night. I suppose that I must have 
been a little too zealous in showing my appre- 
ciation of your aunt’s capital cellar, and that 
will explain the prolixity that I have been bor- 
ing you with, which, as you know, is not habit- 
ual with me. I do not like to talk to excess 
about my art. You know my device — that I 
would be glad to see fastened on the door of 
every studio : ‘Work and be silent !’ ” 

With these words Fabrice discreetly with- 
drew, just as the dancing was about to com- 
mence. His growing reputation for several 
years past had frequently brought him in con- 
tact with the movement of society and of the 
Parisian salons; but like the majority of men 
born outside of these surroundings and who 
have been transplanted there late in life, he 
was always conscious of more or less embarrass- 
ment and uneasiness and received but very 
little pleasure there. 

Early the next morning Mine, de Montauron 
sent a servant to the Marquis de Pierrepont to 
request him to come to her room. When he 
presented himself there she was just complet- 
ing her early breakfast. 

“You are not ill, I hope, aunt?” said he, kiss- 
ing the hand that she extended to him. 


THOSE YOUNG LA DIE ST 


33 


“No; I sent for you, because' we are never 
alone during the day, — and I wanted to have a 
little talk with you. Sit down. To begin with, 
I am very well pleased with your great man, — 
rather awkward, a little shy, but those are pleas- 
ing qualities to find in a man of talent. And 
now to speak of more important matters. How 
are we getting on? What do you think of my 
young ladies?” 

“Good heavens! aunt, I have not yet got 
beyond the period — of observation. All this 
galaxy of pretty girls dazzles me, don’t you 
see?” 

“Very well ! I do not ask you for an immedi- 
ate decision. But still, in the eight days that 
you have been living under the same roof with 
them, you must have formed some impressions, 
some preferences?” 

“Eight days, aunt, to speak candidly, is a 
very short space of time to know them thor- 
oughly.” 

“And how long a time would it require, in 
your opinion, to know them thoroughly?” 

“Why — some weeks, I suppose.” 

“Some weeks !” exclaimed the Baronne. 
“Why, my poor boy, it would require a hun- 
dred years — and then you would not be any 
wiser than you are now. There is nothing in 
the world, my dear, more inscrutable than a 


34 


AN AR TI ST'S HONOR. 


young girl. The Lord alone can tell how she 
will turn out once she is married — and even 
then — !” 

“And yet, aunt — ” 

“I know what you are going to say, and I 
tell you beforehand that in this business there 
are only three things that we can be approxi- 
mately sure of, to wit : face, fortune, family. 
For what remains we have to be brave and put 
our trust in Providence, seeing that it is not yet 
the custom to take wives on trial, as we do 
horses — although we are promised a new law of 
divorce, which would be a step in that direction. 
But come, to leave generalities, it seems to me 
that if I had been a man, I should be madly in 
love with Mile. d’Alvarez. Does she not ap- 
peal to your heart, pretty Mile. d’Alvarez?” 

“Too much so, aunt. Her gaze is a little too 
incandescent to suit me. With all due respect, 
she is Venus with all her charms, et caetera.” 

“Bah ! What do you know about it? There 
is nothing so deceptive as eyes like hers, and 
you ought to know it, at your time of life. Blue 
eyes are often the worst. Then there is that 
adorable little American, Miss Nicholson — an 
angelic face and a fortune of three millions, — 
and expectations in proportion !” 

“She is very nice — only she walks like a boy. 
And then don’t you think that she and her 


“ THOSE YOUNG LADIES .” 35 

father always have a faint smell of petroleum 
about them?” 

“What a stupid joke ! Well, we will let Miss 
Nicholson pass for the present, — and what 
about that other delicious blonde, Mile. La- 
haye?” 

“She is very nice, too, aunt. Only her father 
sells wine — it is very annoying!” 

“Yes, but then he sells such quantities of it! 
Well ! what have you to say of Mile. d’Aurigney, 
a perfect beauty and so distinguished?” 

“Very distinguished, my dear aunt! Icy, 
you might say.” 

“Ah! very good. Nowit is icy! Just now 
it was Venus that terrified him, now it is just 
the reverse! In that case, my dear child, you 
are going to object to everything. What does 
it all mean?” 

“You must admit, aunt, that Mile. d’Aurigney 
is like an ice-berg?” 

“It is you that are like an ice-berg. You 
will make me think that there is a fixed deter- 
mination on your part — a concerted refusal.” 

“But you asked me for my impressions; I 
am giving you them in good faith.” 

“Yes, but you make objection to everything, 
and three-quarters of the time your objections 
are childish.” 

“That is to amuse you a little, aunt,” 


36 


AN ART/ST'S HONOR. 


‘‘But I fail to find any amusement in it, and 
there’s just where it is. Well, let us see — there 
is Mile. Chalvin — she carries her head a little 
high, perhaps, but then she is so elegant, so 
charming!” 

‘‘And so well-bred! I heard her mother 
speaking of her yesterday in her affected way : 
‘My daughter has an excellent disposition, only 
we never contradict her, my husband and I. 
She is a little run-away horse. When she is 
contradicted she kicks.’ ” 

‘‘Her mother is a goose,” said the Baronne, 
‘‘but you are not going to marry the mother. 
At last I come to the pearl of my collection, 
Mile, de La Treillade. I defy you to say any- 
thing against her.” 

‘‘Certainly, aunt, I think that she is the best 
of the collection.” 

‘‘The face of a Madonna,” continued the Ba- 
ronne, ‘‘and intellectual, well-bred and modest 
besides. Her governess even is an exemplary 
type of the lady, a piece of perfection. Watch 
the young lady carefully if you do not believe 
me.” 

‘‘I will do so.” 

‘‘And now leave me for a while, my friend. I 
have some letters to write. Send Beatrice to 
me.” 

Pierre kissed her hand again and left the 


THOSE YOUNG LADIES. 


37 


room. He commissioned a chamber-maid 
whom he met upon the stairs to tell Beatrice 
that Mme. de Montauron would like to see her, 
and then descending a few steps, he went to 
Fabrice’s door and knocked. The apartment 
was on the ground floor, or rather it was a sort 
of entre-sol opening on the old moat that had 
been transformed into flower-gardens. The 
painter, who was to commence the Baronne’s 
portrait that afternoon, was busy preparing his 
palette. After having kindly inquired whether 
anything more could be done for the comfort of 
his friend and guest, Pierrepont was proceeding 
to give him some historical and archaeological 
information relative to the Chateau des Genets, 
when he broke off suddenly at the sound of 
women’s voices and laughter beneath the win- 
dows of the apartment. He hastened to the 
window of the little sitting-room, which was 
situated in a corner turret and commanded a 
view of the moat beneath. The blinds had 
been drawn to shut out the hot sunlight of a 
bright August morning, but through the lower 
portion, where the slats stood almost horizon- 
tal, Pierre could obtain a view of the garden ; 
turning around quickly toward Fabrice, he 
signed to him to be silent, and lowering his 
voice said to him with a smile : 

“I am not accustomed to listen at doors, — nor 


38 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


at windows — but in this case the temptation is 
really too strong — I will tell you why.” 

“You see the effect of bad example,” Fabrice 
replied, in the same tone ; and he too approached 
the window. He could then see the two young 
ladies whose voices he had heard. They had 
come down into one of the little sunken gar- 
dens, apparently with the intention of avoiding 
the sunlight, and were walking arm-in-arm on 
the shaded slope that was covered with fine turf 
and planted with rose trees. They were going 
and coming beneath the closed blinds of the 
windows, and their words came to the ears of 
the two friends quite clearly and distinctly. 
One of them, who was brown and pale, with an 
angelic face, said to her companion : 

“What a nice place this is for a little gossip , 
isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” answered the ‘other, who was of a red- 
dish complexion, but good-looking, speaking 
with a slight English accent. “It is delightful. 
We can see any intruders who may be coming. 
Go on, dear, what you were saying interests me 
so!” 

After a hesitating pause: “No, my dear 
Eva,” Marianne said with a laugh, “it is really 
too bad to tell you.” 

“Please, dear!” 

“Well, the hair-dresser, — but no, upon my 


THOSE YOUNG LADIES. 


39 


word, it wont answer. Let it stand until some 
evening when we have taken a little too much 
champagne/' 

She plucked a rose as she passed and pinned 
it to her corsage ; then she went on : “And how 
do you like that painter who came yesterday, 
Eva?” 

“He has fine eyes, and there is something 
pleasant about his expression,” Eva replied. 

“Bad form,” said Marianne, with a curl of the 
lip. “Let’s talk about friend Pierre; there’s a 
man that one would like to meet in the gloam- 
ing in a corner of the forest ! I may say paren- 
thetically that I do not pity my cousin d’Ay- 
maret, who has given him her heart for safe 
keeping, so they say. I don’t know how true 
the rumor is, but I know that they see a great 
deal of each other— for this reason, or for that, 
or for some other.” 

“The poor Vicomtesse is not very happy with 
her husband, is she, darling?” 

“What woman is happy with her husband, my 
good Eva? See what a happy family the Lau- 
becourts are who are stopping here at this mo- 
ment !” 

“True; I have noticed that they look dag- 
gers at each other from morning till night.” 

“And it seems that from night till morning 
it is even worse yet, my dear! almost every 


40 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


evening he has the most terrible quarrels with 
his wife in their bed-room !” 

“ Dame ! — you don’t say so ! And what does 
his wife say to him in reply?” 

“She replies: Zut /” said Marianne. They 
both laughed heartily, and as the bell was be- 
ginning to ring for breakfast, started for the lit- 
tle stair-way that led up the slope of the moat. 

Even before they had disappeared, Fabrice, 
who had been exchanging looks of edification 
with Pierre while the dialogue was going on, 
asked him in his tranquil way : 

“Who is that very fresh young lady — that 
Marianne?” 

“My dear fellow, that is not a dame — it is a 
demoiselle .” 

“The deuce you say,” curtly replied the 
painter. “And the other one — Eva?” 

“She is her governess.” 

“The deuce!” Fabrice emphatically re- 
peated. And he calmly applied himself again 
to the preparation of his palette. 

“As you will have to make the acquaintance 
of these young ladies during the day, I may as 
well tell you that the name of the young lady 
who has such a stor.e of useful knowledge is 
Mile, de La Treillade, and I will add that my 
aunt was commending her to me this very 
morning as a model of all the virtues. It is 


THOSE YOUNG LADIES. 


41 


true that my aunt, among her other qualifica- 
tions, told me that she was very learned — in 
which the old lady was evidently not misin- 
formed. When I think that my choice might 
have lighted on that girl, it sends a chill down 
my spine. Now you understand how it was 
that I laid all delicacy aside when Mile. Mari- 
anne so kindly gave me an opportunity of 
getting an insight into her principles; and I 
certainly am not penitent for what I did. Let’s 
go to breakfast.” 


CHAPTER V. 


VICOMTESSE D’AYMARET. 

P IERREPONT’S first impulse had been to go 
to Mme. de Montauron and report to her, 
while it was still fresh in his memory, the conver- 
sation that he had overheard between her whom 
his aunt called the pearl of her collection and 
her worthy governess. After a little reflection 
on the subject, however, he thought it best to put 
off this communication for the time being and 
hold it in reserve as a new argument against 
the time when his aunt should again press him 
for a decision. Distracted by doubts and per- 
plexities of which the reader will soon know the 
true cause, if he has not already divined it, the 
young Marquis, in his irresolute state of mind, 
was desirous above all else of gaining time. On 
this and the succeeding days, therefore, he con- 
tinued to mingle, with his usual courteous grace, 
in the pastimes of the little colony at the 
Genets, allowing his aunt to think that in the 
midst of sports and laughter he was conducting 
deep researches into character, whereas such 
42 


VICOMTESSE D'AYMARET. 43 

studies were not bothering his head in the 
slightest. 

Nearly every day, however, after her noon- 
day nap, Mme. de Montauron, with her pug dog 
on her lap, sat to Fabrice in the great white 
drawing-room. On most occasions Beatrice was 
the only one present at these seances, but ex- 
cusing himself by his interest in matters of art, 
the Marquis de Pierrepont would sometimes 
penetrate within the sanctuary, where he ap- 
peared to be much interested in the labors of 
the painter. At such times Fabrice was struck 
and touched by the little respectful attentions 
that he displayed toward his aunt’s reader. He 
was the only one among the inhabitants of the 
chateau who treated her as an equal ; all the 
rest, the women especially, imitating the Baronne 
and assuming toward poor Beatrice airs of 
haughty superiority or patronizing protection. 
Fabrice remarked that the most disagreeable 
of the reader’s duties were spared her when 
Pierre was by : it was he who arose to place a 
foot-stool, shake up a cushion, open or close a 
window, ring for a servant, take the pug for a 
walk, — to satisfy, in a word, all the caprices of 
a sickly, nervous, imperiously selfish old woman. 
The Baronne, however, seemed to prefer Mile, 
de Sardonne’s services to those of her nephew : 
“My friend,” she would say to him, “it is very 


44 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


nice of you ; I am very much obliged, — and so 
is Mile, de Sardonne, I suppose, — but I tell you 
frankly that a man has rather too heavy a hand 
for these little attentions. Only Beatrice can 
arrange the cushion behind my back to my lik- 
ing — and without disarranging my attitude — 
isn’t that so, Monsieur Fabrice? And then, 
my dear boy, I don’t want to monopolize you ; 
you are part master of the house here, and you 
should give your time to my guests, who are 
your’s as well. Go and find them, then — go, 
my friend — you will oblige me !” 

Of all Beatrice’s friends of childhood, there 
was but one, two or three years older than she, 
who had remained firmly and faithfully true to 
her. This was that Vicomtesse d’Aymaret, 
cousin to.Mlle.de La Treillade, whose name 
that pretty little pestilent creature had perfidi- 
ously associated with that of the Marquis de 
Pierrepont in her scandalous chronicle. Mme. 
d’Aymaret during the season occupied the little 
Chateau des Loges, situated at two kilometres 
from the Genets. In the country, as well as at 
Paris, a week rarely went by without her pay- 
ing a visit to Beatrice, braving, for the sake of 
this sacrifice to friendship, the cool reception 
accorded her by Mme. de Montauron, who had 
an undefined feeling, from certain appearances, 
that this kind-hearted person was an obstacle 


VICOMTESSE D'AYMARET. 45 

in the way of the so ardently longed for mar- 
riage of her nephew. Pierrepont, who, errone- 
ously certainly, had not a very high opinion of 
feminine virtue, was always extolling that of 
Mme. d’Aymaret, and from this, the Baronne, 
with her worldly logic, drew the conclusion that 
he was her lover. 

Be this as it may, Mme. d’Aymaret was of in- 
estimable value as a consoler and a confidant to 
Mile, de Sardonne in her lonely condition : it 
was only in her presence that Beatrice could 
now and then lay aside her impenetrable mask 
and give free course to her tears ; and still, even 
from this friend the secret of her heart was kept 
jealously concealed. The Vicomtesse, having 
found hei one day crying in her room after one 
of those mortifying, scenes that the Baronne’s 
ill-humor never spared her, had urgently insisted 
on her leaving Mme. de Montauron’s house 
forthwith and accepting shelter with her. Bea- 
trice hesitated, then, after a moment of reflec- 
tion : 

“I thank you,” she said to her friend with 
a grateful embrace, “but excuse me; I am still 
too proud, in spite of all that I have to suffer, 
to be indebted to charity for my board and 
lodging. Here, at least, I am of some use; 
there are duties that I perform, services that I 
can render; I earn my bread; in your house I 


46 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


should be nothing but a useless parasite.” To 
her friend, affectionately endeavoring to over- 
come her scruples, Beatrice replied with a sad 
smile: “And then your husband would make 
love to me !” 

Mme. d’Aymaret, who knew her husband 
only too well and how surprisingly capable he 
was of violating the sacred laws of hospitality, 
shook her head mournfully and said nothing 
more. 

The Vicomte d’Aymaret, like many another 
man in this world, would have greatly preferred 
to be a perfectly upright man, sober, regular in 
his habits, not in love with the queen of spades. 
If he liked play, women and wine, even to the 
point of debauchery and degradation, the rea- 
son was that these seductions were too strong 
for him. Psychologists would probably have 
looked upon him as a victim of determinism, 
but to common folks he was simply a black- 
guard. 

His appearance was pleasing, and he was not 
destitute of intelligence. His wife had loved 
him devotedly, but he had so maltreated, dis- 
couraged and disgusted her that the only feel- 
ings that she retained for him were those of 
indifference and contempt. Stfll, she had a sort 
of pity for him, as for a sick man ; she even en- 
couraged him in a singular mania which had 


VICOMTESSE D * A YMARE T. 


47 


taken possession of him, which consisted in con- 
fiding to her, weeping the while sometimes, his 
losses at play, his amours, his moral suffering. 
It will be said that she showed too much kind- 
ness in listening to him, but then there are 
women who are celestially good. 

Mme. d’Aymaret had had two children by 
this unworthy husband, — two sons, to whom she 
gave much of her time and to whom she seemed 
to have conveyed all her stock of affection. 

She was one of the very few women with 
whom the Marquis de Pierrepont had been seri- 
ously in love. He had loved her for the pure 
and (so to speak) luminous charm of her blonde 
head, for the perfect graciousness of her de- 
meanor, for the gentle light of her eyes, which, 
like those of Henrietta of England, seemed to 
“question one’s heart.” He had loved her, too, 
for her virtue, and because she was forbidden 
fruit to him ; and a little, also, it is to be hoped, 
from a feeling of sympathy for the unhappy 
woman, since better than any one else in the 
world he knew the sorrows of her wretched life. 
He belonged to the same club as M. d’Ayma- 
ret, and more than once he had seen his wife, 
when they had been married only a short time, 
come to the club-house early in the morning, 
looking for her husband, her eyes red with 
weeping and want of sleep. 


48 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


In a word, he had taken upon himself the 
duty of being her consoler. He had been un- 
successful. Greatly astonished and at first a 
little mortified by his discomfiture, he had. how- 
ever, accepted the situation like a gallant man 
and received the species of reserved friendship 
that the charming woman had tendered as 
frankly as she had frankly offered it. From 
this time they had continued to meet pretty 
frequently on a footing of confiding compan- 
ionship in which there was much cheerful- 
ness and a little irony. 

Mme. d’Aymaret, who took much interest in 
all matters pertaining to art, was a warm ad- 
mirer of Jacques Fabrice’s talent. She owned 
some water-color sketches dating back to the 
painter’s earliest days, and was justly proud of 
her treasures. Fabrice’s arrival at the Chateau 
des Genets had inspired her with a lively curi- 
osity; she had been pleased by his air of 
modesty and melancholy gravity. Always pre- 
occupied by the situation, painful and precari- 
ous as it was, of her friend Beatrice, she remem- 
bered that before the disaster of her family the 
young girl had shown a decided talent for paint- 
ing in water-color; she said to herself that Fa- 
brice might be willing to give her a few lessons 
while he was staying at the Genets, encourage 
her aspirations, and bring to light the germs of 


VICOMTESSE D'A YMARET. 


49 


a talent that might some day afford the orphan 
an independent living. Beatrice, in her bitter 
discouragement with everything, nevertheless 
looked upon this idea with a certain amount of 
interest. 

“But,” she said, “how to ask the gentleman 
for such a favor? I shall never dare.” 

“You might request M. de Pierrepont to ask 
him,” said Mme. d’Aymaret. 

“No,” Beatrice replied, “that wojld not do; 
M. de Pierrepont might consider that there 
would be something offensive to his aunt in 
such a request.” 

“I do not think,” rejoined Mme. d’Aymaret, 
“that he would be so thin-skinned in regard to 
his aunt. Besides, we are not obliged to tell 
him all our plan ; it is only natural that you 
should desire to improve what little talent you 
have when you see an opportunity of doing 
so. Do you wish that I should mention the 
matter to the Marquis?” 

“You would oblige me very much.” 

The troop of guests had that day gone on an 
excursion to the springs at B., some leagues 
from the Genets. Pierrepont had alleged the 
excuse of important letters to write to remain 
at the chateau. As Mme. d’Aymaret was leav- 
ing the park to return to the Loges by a short 
cut through the adjacent wood, she caught 


50 AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 

sight of the Marquis on the bank of a small lake 
that was fed by the stream that ran through 
the wood ; he was unfastening the chain of a 
boat that was tied to the bank. 

“How fortunate!” she said, waving her um- 
brella as a signal for him to come to her. “I 
want to speak to you.” 

He hastened to her. “To hear is to obey,” 
he gayly said. “What is it?” 

“Well ! it is this. You may or may not know 
that Beatrice used to paint very prettily in 
water-colors before her misfortunes came on 
her. She would like to take it up again and 
receive a few lessons from M. Fabrice while he 
is staying at the chateau. Can it be done, 
under your protection?” 

Pierrepont reflected for a few seconds. 

“Under my protection, no,” he at last replied ; 
“under yours, yes, without a doubt. Under- 
stand that I am always ready to serve you and 
Mile, de Sardonne — but Fabrice being my guest 
at the present moment, you will certainly agree 
with me in thinking that it would be a little in- 
discreet on my part to request from him a ser- 
vice that he might not feel like declining, should 
he desire to do so, while if you yourself present 
your small petition for your friend, the matter 
assumes quite another aspect. I was just on 
the point of getting into the boat to go and 


VICOMTESSE D 'A Y MARE T. 5 1 

look for him. He is sketching at the foot of 
the water-fall down there. Will you come with 
me?” 

“What, in the boat?” said Mme. d’Aymaret. 

“Certainly, in the boat! Why not? It is 
only five minutes; if it is the idea of the tete- 
a-tete that alarms you, it won’t last long. We 
have had enough of them before this, Mon 
Dien! Besides it will take you two steps from 
your house. Come! dear Madame!” 

“Very well!” said the young woman; and 
supported by Pierrepont’s arm, she jumped 
nimbly into the skiff. 

Pierrepont took the oars, shoved the boat 
away from the shore and directed it into the 
stream, where all that he had to do was to steer 
it, allowing it to float with the current which 
carried it gently along. 

It was charming, this little stream, half hidden 
beneath the foliage of the willows and ashes 
that bordered its two banks. The only break 
in the wall of verdure was where little clearings 
had been made here and there for the conven- 
ience of the fishermen. It flowed along in 
silence, save for a gentle plashing of the waves 
upon the bank at intervals, beneath almost un- 
broken arches of greenery, through which the 
sun threw a few trembling, golden rays. 

After a few moments of thoughtful silence, 


52 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


Pierrepont brusquely accosted the young 
woman in that tone, half serious, half ironical, 
that they were accustomed to employ toward 
each other : 

“Madame d’Aymaret !” 

“My dear sir !” 

“You know that they are trying to find a 
wife for me?” 

“I think that is clear enough!” 

“Well! I have made up my mind — I am 
going to clear out — I am sick of it.” 

“Because — ?” 

“Because the older I grow, the more con- 
firmed I become in the truth of my conviction 
that there are no more virtuous girls, and con- 
sequently no more virtuous women !” 

“What are you saying?” 

“I say there are no longer any virtuous 
women — in the society that we live in, at least ; 
it is an extinct species.” 

“Pardon me!” rejoined Mme. d’Aymaret. 
“Do you dare to say such a thing as that to 
me?” 

“You know very well that I make an excep- 
tion in your case. You were born virtuous, — 
it is your moral conformation — but it is rare!” 

“Ah ! very good,” exclaimed Mme. d’Ayma- 
ret. “It is in that way that you sit in judg- 
ment on us ! There are no honest women ! — 


VICOMTESSE D 'A YM ARE T. 


53 


and if there be found one by chance whose vir- 
tue it is impossible for you to question, the rea- 
son is that she was born that way ! and in her 
case there has been neither temptation, nor 
bitter struggle, nor deserving, nothing! Ah! 
Great Heavens! how hard it is to listen to such 
words — how unjust, how cruel, how frivolous 
is such an opinion !” 

“Dear Madame!” murmured Pierrepont, 
somewhat surprised that the young woman 
should manifest so much feeling. 

She continued, in repressed but quivering 
tones: 

“It is not necessary to disclose the painful 
secrets of my life. Every one knows them — 
and you better than any one. Well ! you know 
whether ever a woman had more excuse for 
misconducting herself than I had. But no ! I 
have children — I have my two sons — and I 
wished that it should be said of me sometime: 
‘If the father was a poor fool, a hardened case, 
the mother was a worthy woman, she was 
honest !’ And you believe that that was an 
easy thing for me to do, do you? Because I 
was born that way — born to live loving no 
one — Ah ! My God ! My God ! and you be- 
lieve that, you !” 

“Madame,” said Pierrepont, with some emo- 
tion and much embarrassment, “I should be too 


54 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


proud if I could for an instant think, — but 
doubtless I misinterpret your words.” 

“No,” she replied with the same headlong 
eagerness, “you understand me quite well ! it is 
of you that I am speaking! You made love to 
me — I do not know whether you loved me, but 
I did love you — and I love you still, and I tell 
you so boldly, because that will end it all — be- 
cause I wish to remain an honest woman for 
the sake of my children and for the sake of my 
God ! You will never have a better friend than 
you have in me — you may be sure of it !” 

She turned her head to wipe away a tear with 
the finger of her glove. 

“Give me your hand !” said Pierrepont. 

She extended her hand to him, and he gently 
carried it to his lips, uttering not another word. 

Then ensued a long silence, unbroken save 
by the low sound of the oars striking the water. 
Pierrepont was the first to break it, endeavoring 
as he did so to resume their usual cheerful tone : 

“In reality,” said he, “you are partly responsi- 
ble for the annoyance that I am suffering on ac- 
count of this wretched marriage. If I had never 
known you, I should not be so hard to suit !” 

She bowed her head graciously without re- 
plying. 

“I should be glad,” he continued, in a grave 
tone, “to receive a wife at your hands,” 


VlCOM TE$SE D'AYMARET. 55 

“That is far too delicate a matter,” said she; 
“I could never take such a responsibility upon 
my shoulders. I would never venture to name 
a person for your choice, even though that 
name were burning on my lips !” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing.” 

“You had some one in mind when you spoke 
in that way?” 

“No, I did not.” 

“Now you are not sincere!” 

“No, — but let us talk of something else, 
please. Is he a good fellow, that friend of 
your’s, Fabrice? Will he be favorable to my 
petition, do you think?” 

“I would swear that he will. But we must 
get out here, otherwise the current will carry 
us over the dam.” 

The little stream threw itself into the Orne at 
a small distance below the point where they 
were, tumbling over a dam that had been built 
there. The waterfall, the whiteness of which 
was relieved by a back-ground of dark green 
trees, divided here into two currents, the larger 
of which turned the wheel of a mill that stood 
on the bank, on a kind of peninsula. This was 
the bit of landscape of which Fabrice was just 
finishing his sketch when he was joined by 
Mme. d’Aymaret and Pierrepont. 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


56 


After the usual compliments the young wo- 
man, blushing rosy red, — she blushed at noth- 
ing at all, — preferred her petition in favor of 
Beatrice. The artist received it with all sim- 
plicity and graciousness. He would be most 
happy to give his advice to Mile, de Sardonne, 
although he had given up water-colors to a great 
extent. Had Mile, de Sardonne ever painted 
from nature, or had she only copied? Mme. 
d’Aymaret, with more blushes, could not say 
for certain that she had ever painted from na- 
ture. And what would be the hours that Mile, 
de Sardonne would prefer for her lessons? 

At this Mme. d’Aymaret cast an interroga- 
tive look at Pierrepont. 

“I think,” said he, “that she has only one 
hour at her disposal during the day — it is when 
my aunt is taking her nap after her mid-day 
breakfast.” 

“That will answer; we will take that.” 

Mme. d’Aymaret’s grounds were reached by 
crossing the stream on a rustic bridge near the 
mill. The two men accompanied her to her 
door and then returned to take the boat and go 
back to the chateau. On the way they talked 
at great length of Mme. d’Aymaret, taking up 
the theme : “What a charming woman !” and 
embroidering it with variations at will. Neither 
of them mentioned Beatrice. 


CHAPTER VI. 

PIERRE’S SECRET. 

F ABRICE offered his services that same even- 
ing to Mile, de Sardonne, who recompensed 
his kindness by one of those sweet smiles that 
so rarely illuminated her brown cheeks. He 
requested to see some of her attempts, which 
she showed him rather timidly ; they were from 
nature and not destitute of merit in the artist’s 
judgment. It was settled, therefore, that com- 
mencing with the ensuing day, after breakfast 
and while her aunt was taking her regular 
siesta, she should resume her studies in water- 
color under the painter’s supervision. 

It was impossible to carry this arrangement 
into effect without first obtaining the consent 
of Mme. de Montauron, and Pierrepont took 
this task upon himself. There was a bit of a 
skirmish on this occasion between the aunt and 
the nephew. In this artistic freak of her reader 
the Baronne immediately scented a vague effort 
toward emancipation that was displeasing to 
her. She could not veto this fancy without 
making too open a demonstration of her des- 
57 


58 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


potic jealousy, but she did what she could to 
vent her ill-humor by interposing objections. 

“It is a nice thing,” she said, “for Mile. Bea- 
trice to dispose of her time without saying a 
word to me about it !” 

“Pardon me, aunt; she is only disposing of 
the time when you do not require her 
services.” 

“I may have need of her at any hour, at any 
minute !” 

“Come, now, not while you are asleep!” 

“Does she think that I am going to keep her 
here forever, just for the pleasure of seeing her 
make her daubs?” 

“She has not many pleasures, my dear aunt, — 
and that is such an innocent one !” 

“So innocent! That is a question. I don’t 
feel at all sure of it, to speak for myself. This 
Fabrice is a good-looking fellow, a mysterious, 
handsome sort of man, — and then, too, he has 
the prestige of talent. Do you believe that 
they can meet tete-a-tete every day without 
something coming of it?” 

“Yes, aunt, I do believe so, — when the pupil 
is Mile, de Sardonne!” 

“Very well!” she said. “Nevertheless you 
will see that trouble of some kind or other will 
result from it !” 

Having thus got rid of her bile, Mme. de 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


59 


Montautori appeared to accept the lessons with 
a spirit of resignation. Every day, conse* 
quently, between one and two o’clock in the 
afternoon, Beatrice took her position upon a 
camp-stool at Fabrice’s side to draw or paint 
some landscape or architectural effect. With a 
natural sentiment of respect for the proprieties, 
they never went out of sight of the windows of 
the chateau, finding, moreover, sufficient ma- 
terial for their studies in the chateau itself or 
its immediate environs. 

Early in September, however, the opening of 
the hunting season had afforded to the guests 
collected at the Genets a new source of pleas- 
ure and animation. The young women of the 
colony made up their minds that they would 
have a hand in the sport, to the great despair 
and terror of those who made hunting a serious 
business. Pierrepont, at the instigation of his 
aunt, initiated the inexperienced young hunt- 
resses and moderated their zeal, Marianne de 
La Treillade in particular, which young lady 
manifested much ardor for the chase, as she did 
in truth for every novelty. It must even be 
admitted that the young Marquis had shown a 
sort of predilection for Marianne ever since he 
had discovered that treasures of precocious per^ 
versity lay hidden in the depths of her great 
candid, wondering eyes. The truth is that his 


6o 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


dilettantism was amused with the study of this 
piquantly blended character. 

Mme. de Montauron, who was always on the 
lookout, with eyes wide open and ears pricked 
up, did not fail to notice these appearances and 
interpret them in accordance with her desires. 
She resolved to avail herself of what she re- 
garded as the propitious moment, and at the 
customary hour of her secret audiences, she 
one morning summoned her nephew to her 
room. Pierrepont obeyed her mandate, not 
without some anxious forebodings, for he felt 
that he was about to be placed, as the saying 
is, with his back to the wall. 

“My friend,” the Baronne said, addressing 
him with her most candid air, “I hardly need 
ask you if you have made up your mind. The 
way that you have been going on with Mari- 
anne de La Treillade for some time past speaks 
for itself, thank the Lord ! and I hope that all 
that remains for me to do now is to give you 
my good wishes.” 

“Aunt,” Pierrepont replied, “I am extremely 
sorry to undeceive you. It is true that I am 
interested in Mile, de La Treillade. I may 
even say that I have a great admiration for her, 
for, young as she is, she is a first-class actress. 
I must tell you frankly, however, that she will 
never be my wife.” 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


6 1 


“What is that? What do you say?” de- 
manded Mme. de Montauron, whose face had 
become quite red. 

“This, my dear aunt :” and then he went on 
to relate in full, without omitting a single de- 
tail, the conversation that he had overheard 
one morning under Fabrice’s windows between 
Marianne de La Treillade and her governess. 
“The reason why I have not told you this be- 
fore,” he added in conclusion, “is that it was 
painful to me to have to dispel your illusion.” 

Stunned momentarily by this sudden revela- 
tion, Mme. de Montauron quickly regained her 
wits and in rather sharp accents : “After all,” 
said she, “all that I can see there is a display of 
childishness, the empty words of a young girl 
who is aping the married woman, — I would be 
willing to bet something that she will none the 
less make an excellent and virtuous wife.” 

“Possibly she may,” said Pierrepont, “but it 
wont be I who will demonstrate that fact.” 

“No one compels you to, my dear boy. But 
if you think that you can get a wife who has 
been brought up in a dark tower and has never 
seen or heard anything of what is going on 
about her, who comes to her nuptial chamber 
as innocent as when she left her cradle, you are 
yourself more innocent than I took you to be.” 

“My dear aunt, I do not really think that I 


62 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


am unduly exacting in demanding that my wife 
shall have other principles than those professed 
by Mile, de La Treillade, in whose eyes children 
are tiresome little beggars, always in the way 
and the ruination of beauty, — and as to the 
scandalous stories, the indecent pleasantries, and 
the erotic conceits that Mile, de La Treillade 
employs to adorn her conversation with her 
female friends, I am quite well aware that all 
that is very much the style at the present day 
among women of fashion, and even, alas ! 
among young girls.” 

“My dear friend,” gently replied the Baronne, 
for she was impressed by Pierrepont’s firm, 
grave tone, “such sentiments are certainly hon- 
orable to you ; but if you are so strongly preju- 
diced against the young women of the present 
generation, you might just as well tell me at 
once that you will have nothing to do with mar- 
riage, for I would like to have you tell me in 
what portion of the globe you expect to find a 
girl who is not more or less a mystery?” 

“Faith ! rather than encounter the risk of 
marrying a mystery of the Mile, de La Treil- 
lade variety, I tell you candidly that I would a 
hundred times rather go and make a monk of 
myself at La Trappe ! But after all, as it is quite 
certain, as you were saying the other day, that 
it is impossible to take a wife on trial, is it alto- 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


63 


gether impossible, then, to come across some 
young girl who has, in a way, proved her worth — 
whose good qualities have been brought to light 
by particular circumstances — by a special educa- 
tion, that of misfortune, for instance, — and 
whose past shall be a guarantee for her future?” 

Mine, de Montauron furtively cast upon her 
nephew a glance of equivocal meaning, and her 
thin lips were more tightly compressed than 
ever as she answered : 

“Yes, no v doubt, — such a one might be 
found, — but I will remind you that girls reared 
in the school of adversity are generally penni- 
less.” 

“My wife’s fortune would be a secondary con- 
sideration with me.” 

“That is a matter of course! You are so 
rich — and you have such simple tastes! It is 
true that you will probably inherit my fortune, 
but let me remind you that you may have to 
wait a long time for it ! My father was eighty- 
five when he died — so I may live thirty years 
yet ; and I will tell you confidentially that I 
mean to do so.” 

“Aunt !” said Pierrepont in a tone of grave 
reproach. 

“Let it pass! I was wrong,” said she. “All 
these misunderstandings make me ill-tempered. 
We will discuss this matter at some other time. 


6 4 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


Go, my friend !” And Pierrepont retired after 
having kissed both her hands. 

When she was alone, the Baronne rose from 
her easy-chair with an abrupt movement and 
took a few steps about her room, sniffing vigor- 
ously at her sal-volatile meanwhile. At the 
same time she indulged herself with an internal 
monologue, which might be translated in about 
these words : “There is no longer any doubt, he 
is thinking of her\ I have suspected as much 
for some time past. His attentions toward her, 
his careless indifference for the others, his con- 
tinual shuffling and delay, — and yet I would 
not have believed that he could be capable of 
such a ridiculous piece of folly— so absurd — 
and so culpable ! In the first place, to get that 
girl away from me, who has become indispensa- 
ble to me — and then to saddle me with the ex- 
pense of their establishment — for I defy them 
to live unless I come to their assistance ! Do 
they understand each other? Has any promise 
passed? Is there still time to avert the threat- 
ened blow? That is what it is necessary to find 
out !” 

She pressed the button of a bell and a cham- 
ber-maid appeared. 

“Ask Mile. Beatrice to come to me.” 

The Baronne went and moistened her fore- 
head and cheeks, which were scarlet, and then 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 65 

seated herself, with a smile upon her face, to 
await Beatrice’s arrival. 

“Take a seat, my dear. I have something to 
say to you, — yes, I wish to talk with you, and I 
am going to be very candid.” 

“Madame !’* 

“Well, my child ! Last night I was reflect- 
ing, I was thinking of you, — I feared that I had 
not been quite everything to you that I ought 
to be, — that I wish to be. The only excuse is 
that I am a suffering old woman. Your cares, 
your kind attentions, are very precious to me, I 
do not attempt to disguise the fact from my- 
self, — and I should be very miserable without 
them.” 

“Dear Madame, I have not the slightest in- 
tention — ” 

“I know what you are going to say, — that 
you do not think of leaving me, and it delights 
me to know it. Still, if there is a fault in the 
world that I despise and that I try to avoid in 
my own person, it is selfishness, and I was won- 
dering last night whether the great value which 
I place upon your company and your presence 
here might not have a tendency to make me 
selfish toward you. So, my dear child, I wish 
to say to you that I do not consider that I have 
any right to monopolize your life for my ad- 
vantage. You are pretty, my dear, and not- 


66 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


withstanding the misfortunes that have fallen 
so undeservedly upon you, it is entirely within 
the bounds of possibility that a suitor may 
come along some day to claim your hand.” 

“I assure you, Madame — ” 

“That event has not happened yet, you say? 
Maybe not. But it may happen at any mo- 
ment. Here and at Paris, my house is fre- 
quented by many young men, and among the 
people that I receive there may be men of suffi- 
cient taste and sensibility — (‘Go and see if you 
can descry them coming,’ said the Baronne to 
herself in an aside.) However that may be, I 
wanted to say to you that under such circum- 
stances, — notwithstanding the sacrifice that it 
would cost me, — you would have no difficulty, 
no obstacle, to apprehend from me; quite to 
the contrary, you would find me only too anx- 
ious to assist you. You will only allow me to 
burthen you with one condition, which will not, 
I hope, seem unreasonable to you ; it is that in 
such an event, you will not contract an engage- 
ment without letting me know beforehand.” 

“It would be my duty to do so, Madame, and 
you may be assured that I shall not fail in it.” 

“That is well, my child — kiss me!” 

Beatrice arose and presented her forehead. 

“Ah!” said the Baronne, motioning to her to 
resume her seat, as if she had just remembered 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


67 


some unimportant detail that had slipped her 
memory before, “there is one other thing that I 
wanted to say to you, although, indeed, it is a 
waste of precaution. Leaving you entirely at 
liberty to select any man that may be pleasing 
to you for a husband, it must be clearly under- 
stood, however, that I make an exception as 
regards my nephew Pierrepont.” 

The disturbance manifested on Beatrice’s 
countenance at these words was so sudden and 
so great that it was impossible for the Baronne 
to appear not to notice it. 

“I beg, my dear,” she pursued after a short 
silence, “do not mistake the sense of my words. 
They are entirely free in intent from the 
slightest suspicion of offensive meaning so far 
as you are concerned. In the first place, I do 
you full justice as regards your personal charac- 
ter; it is beyond reproach. On the other hand, 
I admit that you would be in every respect — in 
point of birth and everything else — a fit match 
for my nephew. You see how frank I am? I 
will add that it is my firm belief that my nephew 
until now has thought no more of you than you 
have of him. But, after all, it is a mother’s 
duty — and am I not a mother to him and to 
you? — it is a mother’s duty to foresee even the 
improbable, even the impossible, when the in- 
terests and the welfare of her children are con- 


68 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


cerned. Be so good, then, as to listen to me 
with patience to the end, and, as the poet says — 
old Corneille, I think — 

* Only on this one point consult my pleasure, 

Then you can reply at your own leisure.’ 

“Well, then! if it should ever enter my ne- 
phew’s head to yield to the attraction that for- 
bidden fruit may exercise on blase rakes like 
him, I should consider it my solemn duty to em- 
ploy every possible means to hinder the realiza- 
tion of his caprice. My confidence in you is so 
great, dear child, that I am going to let you into 
some of our little family secrets. My nephew 
Pierrepont’s personal fortune is of the small- 
est, — so small that, notwithstanding the addi- 
tions that I make to it, it barely suffices a man of 
his name and inclinations to eke out a respect- 
able living in his bachelor quarters. Suppose 
that in a moment of folly he marries a portion- 
less girl : it is want, it is misery ; it is an unen- 
durable life for both of them into the bargain ; 
for once his fancy gratified, my nephew would 
be bound to hate the woman whom he had re- 
duced to this necessitous condition. It is true 
that he has been my heir up to this moment, — 
but, in the first place, I am not dead yet. I 
may have thirty years of life before me ! (How 
she insisted on that !) And, in the second place 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


69 


if Pierre were ever to marry without my con- 
sent, not only would he have nothing to expect 
from me in the present, but I declare that I 
would disinherit him without hesitating one 
single second. There is a nephew of my hus- 
band who would not be sorry for that — and I 
may even say in parenthesis that my conscience 
would be all the easier for it. And now, my 
dear child, that I have opened my heart to you, 
as I felt the need of doing, there only remains 
one little request to make you. I have told 
you how gratified I am by your attentions and 
your services, — may I hope that you, on your 
part, feel a little grateful for the little that I 
have been able to do for you?” 

“How can Madame think otherwise!” 

“Very well! my child,” Mme. de Montauron 
continued with a certain solemnity of manner, 
“you now have the opportunity of acquitting 
your debt to me in full. Do you give me your 
word as a lady that what I have just said to 
you shall remain forever a secret beween you 
and me?” 

“I promise, upon my word, Madame.” 

“You are as good as gold, my darling. Give 
me another kiss! Will you say to them down- 
stairs not to wait breakfast for me? I am not 
very well ; the moment that I give way to my 
wretched sensibility, as I did just now, it makes 


70 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


me ill. Only tell Jean to send me up some lit- 
tle thing or other — whatever you think best. 
You know what I like, my dear!” 

“Very well, Madame.” And Beatrice with- 
drew. 

If there had been a certain number of prac- 
tical truths incorporated, as it cannot be denied 
there were, in the Baronne’s lengthy homily, 
Mile, de Sardonne will be pardoned that she did 
not appreciate them at their full value. What 
she had appreciated, on the other hand, and felt 
with the keenest intensity of suffering, was the 
lying candor, the stealthy malice, the cruel and 
perfidious diplomacy in which this wicked old 
fairy had enmeshed her, and which she had used 
to torture her in order to wring from her the 
most painful of sacrifices. For some little time 
back, it had been impossible for her not to see 
renewed reason for hope: it had not escaped 
her notice that the Marquis de Pierrepont, 
coldly polite to her rivals, was loading her with 
polite and almost tender attentions. The anx- 
iety of the Baronne, and the hypocritical pre- 
caution^ that she had but now taken to secure 
herself, were sufficient evidence that she looked 
with suspicion upon the Marquis’ dispositions, 
and that there was room for hope for Beatrice. 
And now she was bound hand and foot, not 
only by the obligation of her word given to the 


PIERRE'S SECRET. . 


71 


Baronne, but still more closely, perhaps, by the 
very interest of the man whom she loved, and 
whose fortune or whose ruin lay henceforward 
in her hands; for she had come to know Mme. 
de Montauron’s character too well to doubt for 
a single instant that she would carry out to the 
letter her threat of disinheriting her nephew 
should he dare to marry against her will. The 
poor girl, in her distress, was brought to dread 
that very thing which she had most desired of 
all things in the world, and in her fear of a trial 
that might be beyond her strength, to pray to 
Heaven that she might not be loved. 

But she was loved. It was not without many 
a violent internal conflict that the Marquis de 
Pierrepont had finally yielded to his secret pas- 
sion for Beatrice de Sardonne. Struck from the 
very beginning by her beauty and touched by 
her misfortunes, he had at first wisely guarded 
himself against a feeling of which he plainly 
saw the danger; but his obligatory attendance 
on his aunt, which frequently brought him into 
Beatrice’s presence, had upset his good resolu- 
tions. Little by little his passion had grown, 
and it had brought him by degrees to that con- 
dition of mind, heart, and senses where a man 
knows but one woman in all the world as the 
object of his desires and hopes. 

Beatrice’s exemplary conduct in the delicate 


72 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


and painful situation to which misfortune had 
reduced her had finally touched Pierrepont’s 
heart in the right spot. This young woman, 
tried and purified, as it were, by evil fortune, 
serious, beautiful, and chaste, was indeed the 
figure that he had dreamed of seeing at his fire- 
side to be its honor and its charm. His pro- 
tracted stay at the Genets in these later days, 
by bringing him nearer still to Mile, de Sar- 
donne by reason of their daily habitudes, had 
raised his passion day by day to that height 
where it might turn and rebel against the strong- 
est arguments of reason, or at least of interest. 

Pierrepont’s interest in the question of his 
marriage was so plainly to obey his aunt’s wishes 
and inspirations that it would have been simply 
madness to disregard them. He did not dis- 
regard them, therefore, and it was that which 
gave a more dramatic cast to the conflict be- 
tween love and reason that had been raging for 
months within his breast. Reason told him, 
and kept repeating it aloud, that in giving way 
to his feelings and marrying for love, there 
would be almost the certainty of losing, to- 
gether with the present favor and pecuniary 
assistance of his aunt, all hope of her ultimate 
rich inheritance. At the same time he might 
from that very moment decline to a condition 
of relatively scanty means that would condemn 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


73 


him to disagreeable sacrifices. He was neither 
a child nor a fool. He knew what it costs to 
live; he was fond of the pleasures of Parisian 
high life : horses, the theatres, luxury of every 
kind. It would perhaps be necessary for him to 
renounce in a great measure all these things, 
and, what was harder still, inflict upon her who 
was to be his wife the same privations. Did he 
love her enough, — did she love him enough, 
that their mutual affection would compensate 
them for all that might be wanting them in the 
present, and all that they might lose in the fu- 
ture? There were times when, in the effusion 
of his heart, he answered this question affirma- 
tively ; at others he thought of his contracted 
income, his ungratified tastes, his hopeless future 
and the unhappiness of his wife, and paused 
upon the threshold of his resolve. 

Three days after the conversation that he had 
had with Mme. de Montauron, and in which he 
had come near parting with his secret, perhaps 
through carelessness, perhaps intentionally, the 
Marquis de Pierrepont presented himself in the 
afternoon at the door of his neighbor, the Vi- 
comtesse d’Aymaret. He found her reading, 
seated beneath a veranda in front of her open 
drawing-room window, while her two little 
blond-headed boys were making mud-pies at 
her feet. 


74 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


“Ah ! Mon Dien ! ” she exclaimed, as Pierre- 
pont saluted her, “what is the matter? You 
are as pale as a sheet. There is nothing wrong, 
I hope?” 

“Not a bit,” said the Marquis with a laugh. 
“Only I am coming to you on a rather embar- 
rassing errand. Can I have a few minutes’ con- 
versation with you in some place where we 
shall not be interrupted?” 

She cast a glance of surprise and curiosity 
upon him, and immediately rising: 

“Come in,” said she. 

He followed her into her drawing-room. 
“May I close the windows?” he said. 

“Certainly !”. 

He went to the windows and closed them; 
then seating himself at a small distance from 
her, he continued : 

“When I said to you the other day in the 
boat that I should be glad to have you choose 
a wife for me, you declined the responsibility. 
At the same time, however, I thought that 
there was a name just ready to slip from your 
tongue — ” 

“That is possible.” 

“Tell me that name!” 

“Never !” 

“Not even if I were to request you to make 
the offer of my hand to your friend Beatrice?” 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 75 

She looked him steadily in the eyes. “Do 
you mean it?” she murmured. 

“You know very well,” he replied, “that I 
would not joke on such a subject.” 

The young woman’s pretty face was suddenly 
illuminated from within like a sort of transpar- 
ency. She rose quickly from her chair with a 
little joyful cry, and seizing Pierrepont’s hand — 

“Ah!” she said, “you are a gentleman!” 

“So, dear Madame, you do not object to de- 
livering my message?” 

“I should think not !” replied the charming 
woman, excitedly resuming her seat upon her 
fauteuil. 

“But you who are on such intimate terms 
with her, cannot you form some idea how the 
message will be received?” 

“I should say to you in the first place that I 
really know nothing of her heart’s secrets, if 
she has any ; but from all that I can imagine, I 
should be more than surprised if your declara- 
tion was not well received.” 

“You are aware,” said Pierrepont, almost 
timidly, “that I am not wealthy?” 

“You are for her, poor girl, — and besides — ” 
She interrupted herself and continued : “What 
does your aunt say about it?” 

“She says nothing, — for she knows nothing.” 

Mme. d’Aymaret drew herself up quickly on 


76 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


her chair: “But that is a very serious matter, 
my dear sir! There may be a terrible obstacle 
in that quarter!” 

“There may be a great annoyance, but not 
an obstacle. You can believe me when I say 
that I would never take such a step as this with- 
out being firmly resolved, come what may, to 
adhere to the engagement that you are about 
to make in my name.” 

“Dear sir,” said the young woman, “you must 
understand that a marriage between you and 
Beatrice has always been a favorite dream of 
mine, but notwithstanding that, I am still too 
much your friend not to ask you if you have 
weighed carefully all the possible consequences 
of your resolution?” 

“I have considered everything, dear Madame. 
It is very clear that my aunt, who, as you are 
aware, had other plans for me, will at first be 
extremely angry with my choice. Still, I think 
that she has a little fondness for me, and I kncnv 
that she has a great deal for our family name, 
of which I am the sole representative. I admit, 
therefore, that I do not despair, by dint of gen- 
tle measures and sound arguments, of getting 
her to consent to my marriage with Mile, de 
Sardonne; but still I do not close my eyes to 
the fact that I am incurring a grave risk of los- 
ing her kindness in the present, perhaps also in 


PIERRE ’ 5 SEC RE T. )J 

the future as well. Were I to tell you that it 
would cost me no regrets to renounce what ex- 
pectations I may have in that quarter, it would 
not be the truth ; but the regrets that it would 
cost me to renounce the happiness that I look 
forward to from an union with your friend would 
be greater still. All that I ask is that she may 
look upon the matter in the same light that I 
do, and in honoring me by accepting my hand, 
not be swayed by the allurement of a great for- 
tune which may slip through our fingers after 
all. May I count upon you faithfully to leave 
her no illusion upon this score?” 

“You may, most certainly.” 

“You know what my personal fortune is, — it 
is very modest ; let her be well apprized of it.” 

“I have an idea,” said Mme. d’Aymaret with 
a smile, “that Beatrice will consider these de- 
tails of much less importance than you do. It 
is true that her tastes are naturally elegant and 
refined — she is a lady by birth ; but that is the 
class that bears most bravely, at a pinch, the 
simple life afforded by moderate means. But 
wait ; let me think a little.” She supported her 
elbow on the arm of her chair and rested her 
pretty head upon her hand ; after a moment’s 
meditation, she blushingly asked Pierrepont if 
he would have an insuperable objection to ac- 
cepting a position that would not take up too 


7 * 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


much of his time, and might add something 
handsome to his resources. She had friends 
and relatives in some of the great financial insti- 
tutions where she thought she could promise 
that he would find one of those situations where 
a distinguished name is more sought for than 
mere clerkly acquirements. He thanked her, 
blushing a little in turn, for her kindness in 
taking such interest in his affairs, and showed a 
cordial disposition to profit by her good offices. 

“And when do you wish me to speak to Bea- 
trice?” she inquired. 

“I pray you, dear Madame, as soon as possi- 
ble ; I assure you that I shall await my answer 
with the greatest anxiety. You see that I am 
staking all my future on this card; it is indeed 
a solemn moment for me, — and notwithstand- 
ing your kind words, I do not feel much confi- 
dence — I am afraid !” 

“That is a good one!” said the Vicomtesse, 
laughing. “Well, I will make an appointment 
with her for to-morrow.” 

She went to her little writing-desk and 
penned this brief note: 

“Darling: I would like to see you for a mo- 
ment alone; I am commissioned with a mes- 
sage for you. I will rap at your door to-mor- 
row morning at ten o’clock. With love, 

“Elise.” 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


79 


She gave the note to Pierrepont, and arranged 
with him to meet him in an avenue of the park 
of the Genets the following day, immediately 
after her interview with Beatrice. 

As soon as he got back to the chateau, Pierre- 
pont sent Madame d’Aymaret’s missive to Bea- 
trice, who was making herself ready for dinner. 
She read it hastily, and at first saw in it nothing 
extraordinary, nothing to distinguish it from 
the unimportant correspondence that was pass- 
ing almost daily between her and her friend. 
It was only later in the evening, when Pierre 
asked her if she had received the note that he 
had brought her from Madame d’Aymaret, that 
she was struck by his embarrassed air and the 
agitation of his manner. 

“You were at Madame d’Aymaret’s to-day?” 
she asked. 

“Yes, — and we had a very long conversation 
together — and a very interesting one.” 

“Ah!” said she: “on what subject?” 

“It was about you.” 

She made no response, and stole quietly away. 
She was suddenly seized with a presentiment 
of the truth ; she could scarcely sustain herself 
upon her feet. It seemed as if a thunderbolt 
had fallen upon her head, leaving her crushed 
and stunned. 

The hardest of the duties that Beatrice had 


8o 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


to perform for the Baronne was reading to her 
in the evening, sometimes until quite a late 
hour of the night, as a soporific ; then she re- 
tired, to sleep, when she could. This night she 
could not. She spent the long hours until day- 
light in reading and re-reading and commenting 
upon Mme. d’Aymaret’s note, — in strengthen- 
ing her conviction that she was about to be sub- 
jected to the terrible trial, of which Mme. de 
Montauron’s comminatory sermon a few days 
before had caused her to feel the first bitter 
pang. It was true, then ! The man who had 
had possession of her heart for so many years 
was now about — contrary to her every hope — 
to ask her for that hand that she was burning 
to place in his,— and she was to be compelled 
to refuse him, under penalty of failing in her 
sacred duties of conscience and of honor, not 
only toward herself, but toward him. Had she 
not been warned that her marriage to him 
would be his ruin? Tell him the reason of her 
refusal, give him, at least, and give herself this 
consolation; even this she could not do with- 
out breaking her pledged word and, in addi- 
tion, forcing him whom she loved to brave, 
through his sense of honor, a family quarrel in 
which he would inevitably be the victim. 

In her deep distress, her usual morning prayer 
did not seem to her of sufficient solemnity to 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


81 


convey her request for strength to Him who is 
its fountain-head. She left the chateau at early 
daybreak and made her way through the morn- 
ing dews to the parish church that stood at the 
margin of the wood. The church was empty 
at that hour. She prostrated herself upon the 
flags, her forehead resting on the railing of the 
altar, praying and weeping with the despairing 
fervor of a martyr preparing himself for the 
last great sacrifice. As she returned, follow- 
ing the course Of the stream beneath the over- 
hanging foliage, she kneeled upon the bank, 
dipped her handkerchief in the cool water 
and bathed her eyes to remove the traces of 
her tears. 

Two hours later, Mme. d’Aymaret entered 
her room, her eyes bright with pleasure. After 
the usual embraces, Beatrice, anticipating her 
friend in what she was about to say, hurriedly 
said : 

“How singular ! When I received your note 
last evening, I was just on the point of writing 
to ask you to come to me this morning. I have 
a favor to ask of you.” 

“A favor?” repeated Mme. d’Aymaret, tak- 
ing a seat at her side. 

“Yes. You are well acquainted with the 
cure of Saint S — — , are you not?” She named 
one of the great Parisian parishes. 


82 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


“The Abbe D ? Certainly. He is my 

spiritual director.” 

“I believe that he is the superior of the Car- 
melites in the rue d’Enfer?” 

“Yes, I think-so.” 

“It would be very kind of you to give me a 
line or two recommending me to his good 
offices. I wish to place myself in communica- 
tion with him.” 

The expression of Madame d’Aymaret’s face 
underwent a change; she looked at Beatrice 
with an anxious eye. 

“You cannot be thinking — ?” she said with 
hesitation. 

“Of entering the Carmelites?” said Beatrice. 
“Pardon me, I am thinking of it very seriously — 
and have been for a long time. What can I 
do better than leave a world that has always 
treated me so cruelly? Excuse me, dearest, 
that I have never spoken to you of my plans, — 
but there are things about which we can take 
counsel only with ourselves. When one asks 
advice from another in matters pertaining to 
his courage or his vocation, it is because he 
possesses neither the one nor the other.” 

“But, great Heavens! my poor child,” ex- 
claimed Mme. d’Aymaret, “in the vocation that 
you speak of lie only discouragement and des- 
pair, It is true that the life which you are 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


83 


leading here with your so-called benefactress is 
a hateful one, and what is worse, there is no 
prospect of any amelioration in it. But sup- 
pose that I were to bring you not only the 
hope, but the certain assurance of a better 
fate, — more merciful, more worthy of you, the 
certainty of a happy future, in a word ? Come — 
I told you that I had a message for you. Will 
you listen to me?” 

“Certainly — speak; but whatever it may be, 
it cannot change my resolve.” 

“Then you will make a gallant man very un- 
happy. I am speaking of the Marquis de 
Pierrepont, who loves you with all his heart and 
manfully asks you for your hand.” 

Beatrice fastened upon her friend a strange, 
fixed look in which a kind of wildness seemed 
mingled with surprise. 

“My God !” she murmured in a muffled voice. 

“Well, dear one,” said Mme. d’Aymaret, tak- 
ing her hand, “is that not better than the con- 
vent?” 

“As you may see,” replied the young girl, 
“I am greatly disturbed by what you tell me. 
Do not, however, misinterpret the cause of 
my emotion ; it arises from astonishment, from 
gratitude. It pains me that I can reply to M. 
de Pierrepont’s generosity, to the honor that 
he wishes to do me, only by a refusal, — but, as 


8 4 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


I told you, it is a long time since I accustomed 
my mind to dwell on other thoughts, on other 
feelings- — and I cannot change.” 

“I thought that I understood you to say 
that your project of devoting yourself to a 
religious life was not yet decided upon irrevo- 
cably.” 

“You are right; I have need of further con- 
sultation with myself.” 

“Then you will allow me to tell the Marquis 
that you will give his proposal further thought, 
that he is not to renounce all hope?” 

“If you should tell him that, you would de- 
ceive him.” 

“What! even if you should not enter the 
convent, you would still decline his hand?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah !” exclaimed Mme. d’Aymaret, “it can- 
not be! You love some one else!” 

Beatrice made no answer. 

“You love another?” repeated Mme. d’Ay- 
maret, unconscious of the torture that she was 
inflicting on her friend. 

“Perhaps,” Beatrice murmured. 

“Hopelessly, then?” 

Beatrice’s only answer was a melancholy 
movement of the head 

“And I am not to know who it is?” 

“May I beg you not to i-nsist?” 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 


85 


“Very well!” said the young woman, show- 
ing a bit of humor as she rose from her chair; 
“I should have looked for more confidence in 
you ! Au revoir, my dear!” — and she moved 
toward the door. 

“You are going without kissing me?” said 
poor Beatrice. 

“All the same !” said Mme. d’Aymaret, com- 
ing back and throwing her arms about her 
neck. They embraced with mutual tears. In 
the midst of their tender effusion, they ex- 
changed a few more words, Beatrice request- 
ing the Vicomtesse, for reasons which she 
briefly explained to her, to say nothing to any 
one, excepting Pierrepont, of her probable re- 
tirement to the Carmelites. 

Mme. d’Aymaret left the chateau and started 
to return to the Loges, casting about in her 
mind for some expedient by which she might 
soften, as far as lay in her power, the blow that 
she was about to inflict on Pierrepont. She 
resolved to lay a great deal of stress upon the 
entrance to the convent, and to leave in the 
background the mysterious attachment of 
which she had wrested from Beatrice the semi- 
confidence. She soon caught sight of the Mar- 
quis walking slowly to and fro in the avenue 
where she had appointed to meet him. Per- 
ceiving her at the same moment, he hurriedly 


86 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


approached her, and reading his fate upon the 
agitated features of the young woman: “It is 
no, then?” he coldly said. She gave him a 
warm clasp of the hand, and placing herself at 
his side, she walked onward with him, speaking 
with feverish eagerness : 

“There was nothing to wound you, nothing 
to offend your dignity! Quite the reverse. 
She was moved even to tears by what she calls 
your generosity, — but she has made up her 
mind to an important step — she is going to 
enter a convent— she is going to be a Carmel- 
ite. Yes, it is even so, a Carmelite! My sur- 
prise when I heard it was no less than yours ; 
for I have always known her to be pious and 
attentive to her religious duties, but not a bigot. 
It must be her wretched life with that horrible 
old aunt of yours — pardon me the expres- 
sion ! — that has driven her into mysticism ! I 
promised her to say nothing about it to any 
one except to you, — your aunt, of course, will 
be furious at losing her, — and Beatrice will say 
nothing to her of her intentions until the very 
last moment, otherwise she would have to be 
on the lookout for some of her ugly tricks. 
And now, my dear sir, if I were at liberty to 
give you a bit of advice, — ” she stopped sud- 
denly, and ceased walking as she beheld the terri- 
ble paleness of his face, and laying her little 


PIERRE'S SECRET. 87 

gloved hand softly upon his shoulder: “You 
are suffering, my friend?” she said. 

“My life is ruined,” said Pierrepont, with a 
mournful smile. “Excuse me, — believe me 
that I shall never forget your kindness. You 
are quite sure that she will enter the convent?” 

“She has requested me to introduce her to 

the cure of S , who is the superior of the 

Carmelites.” 

“You are certain that it is not a pretence, 
that she does not love some one else?” 

“It is not at all likely. Whom could she be 
in love with?” 

“It is something,” Pierrepont murmured, 
“that she is not to be another man’s wife.” 

“And now, my dear sir,” said the young 
woman, resuming her walk, “it would be better 
for you to go away for a while, if you can.” 

“That is what I contemplate doing.” 

“But how will you explain such an abrupt 
departure to your aunt, right in the midst of 
her gayeties?” 

“Chancs has just furnished me with an ex- 
cuse, which I have hopes she will accept. I re- 
ceived a letter yesterday from Lord S- , one 

of my English friends, inviting me to spend 
two or three weeks at Batsford Park. The 
invitation is a special one; it is for a hunting 
party, at which there will be a member of roy- 


88 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 

alty who has been pleased to mention me 
among those guests whom he would like to 
meet. I intend to start to-morrow.” 

“It is the best thing that you could do 1” 
said Mme. d’Aymaret. 

They were in sight of the Loges ; he stopped 
and took her hand: “I do not know if I shall 
ever see you again ! Farewell, then, — and 
again, thanks!” 

“Thanks for what, mon Dieu /” 

“For your dear friendship. Adieu, Ma- 
dame.” 

“Adieu !” 

She moved rapidly away toward the Loges, 
while Pierrepont turned his steps in the direc- 
tion of the chateau. 

Alleging a violent headache, Mile, de Sar- 
donne did not appear at breakfast that morn- 
ing. Her absence was not unnoticed by Mme. 
de Montauron’s sempiternally alert attention, 
neither did her nephew’s sombre revery escape 
her vigilant eye. She had besides been in- 
formed that Mme. d’Aymaret had that morn- 
ing had a conversation with Beatrice in her 
room at. an unusual hour; bringing all these 
different circumstances together in her mind, 
she was not far from suspecting the truth. 
She felt that she might be certain, anyway, that 
-a part of her apprehensions had been realized ; 


PIERRE S SECRET . 89 

that her nephew had taken some decisive step 
in relation to Mile, de Sardonne, or else had 
secured some one to take it for him. What 
had been the result? She had no idea. The 
manifest dejection of her nephew might mean 
that he had sustained a refusal, but it might 
also mean that he had been informed through 
treachery on Beatrice’s part of the opposition 
and menaces of his aunt, and that he was medi- 
tating on this text. 

This uncertainty and the expectation of some 
distressing scene kept Mme. de Montauron all 
day long in a condition of terrible suspense, and 
so, when, in the course of the evening, Pierre- 
pont showed her Lord S ’s letter and an- 

nounced to her that, if she had no objection, 
he proposed to start the next morning, the 
Baronne’s first impression was one of profound 
relief. Cover it with what pretexts they might, 
this sudden flight could only be explained on 
the hypothesis of a rejected lover’s despair. 
Beatrice had kept her word, then, and there no 
longer seemed to be any danger in that quarter. 
At any other time, the Baronne would have 
probably refused to recognize the binding force 
of the English invitation, but if her nephew’s 
departure at the present juncture upset some 
of her schemes and was displeasing to her on 
many accounts, it relieved her of so heavy a 


90 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


mental burden that she submitted to it with 
fairly good grace. 

At daybreak the next morning, accordingly, 
the Marquis de Pierrepont took the railway 
train, bearing with him the benedictions of the 
Baronne and the execrations of “those young 
ladies.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


RIVALS. 

W HEN Pierrepont left the Chateau des 
Genets under the circumstances set forth 
above, Fabrice had also been gone some twelve 
days, recalled to Paris by an indisposition of 
his daughter Marcelle, which had caused some 
uneasiness to the Ladies of Auteuil, whose 
school she was attending. Mme. de Montau- 
ron had been greatly annoyed by the painter’s 
departure, deferring as it did indefinitely the 
completion of her portrait, which deservedly 
inspired her with feelings of pride and satisfac- 
tion ; for she beheld in it a likeness as faithful 
as her mirror gave her, with the addition of an 
indescribable something that the mirror obsti- 
nately refused to give and that the artist had 
generously conferred upon her. The day subse- 
quent to his arrival at Paris, Fabrice had writ- 
ten to the Baronne that he had found his daugh- 
ter nearly recovered, but that he was obliged to 
protract his stay for a week or two in order to 
give her the recreation and exercise that had 
91 


92 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


been prescribed for her before putting her back 
to school. Pierrepont, aware of the great an- 
noyance that this long delay would cause his 
aunt, suggested to her the idea of hastening 
her painter’s return by inviting him to bring 
the little convalescent down with him to breathe 
the pure country air. Mme. de Montauron had 
fumed a little, but finally consented, and as 
Pierrepont was to pass through Paris on his 
way to take the steamer at Boulogne, she had 
committed to him the errand of transmitting 
the invitation to Fabrice on his way. 

When Pierrepont told his friend of his ap- 
proaching departure for England and his inten- 
tion of spending several weeks there, Fabrice 
was unable to conceal his great surprise. 

“But those marriage projects of yours,” said 
he, “what is going to become of them in such 
an arrangement?” 

“My marriage projects, my dear fellow, are 
numbered among the things of the past,” the 
Marquis replied. “When inspected from a dis- 
tance, marriage offered me, as it does to many 
good people of my age, a rather attractive pic- 
ture, but as I drew nearer to it, it took on 
sphinx-like and equivocal forms that gave me 
food for reflection. In a word, when my nose 
was brought down to the grindstone, I found 
that it was too much for my courage to at- 


RIVALS. 93 

tempt. So I abandon it and retain my prec- 
ious liberty.” 

“And your aunt?” 

“My aunt is more or less resigned, — but she 
is calling clamorously for you, and to remove 
all objections on your part, she requests you to 
bring your little Marcelle down with you, who 
can run about in the woods down there and lay 
in a famous stock of health.” 

While protesting his gratitude for this kind 
attention, Fabrice manifested a great deal of 
embarrassment and hesitation. Pierre was in- 
sistent : there would be a trusty maid detailed 
especially to watch over the child and take care 
of her, and if it was necessary the doctor could 
call and see her every morning. Finally Fa- 
brice, seemingly forcing himself to make up his 
mind to some difficult resolve, asked Pierre if 
he could spare him half an hour’s conversation. 

“Half an hour, an hour, — whatever you 
will.” 

“Sit down, then,” said Fabrice, motioning to 
the wide divan that took up one side of the 
atelier; he placed himself beside the Marquis 
and thus began in a rather agitated voice: 

“No doubt I am about to be very indis- 
creet, — but am I to understand, from what you 
said just no>v, that you came away from the 
Genets free from any engagement, and even 


94 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


from any feeling that might have marriage as 
its object?” 

“That is precisely my situation,” said Pierre- 
pont. 

“Well,” said Fabrice, “I am dumfoundered. 
I would have staked my life that you loved 
Mile, de Sardonne, and that you proposed to 
marry her.” 

“What a strange idea!” Pierrepont coldly 
said. “No, I have known Mile, de Sardonne 
ever since she was a little child. I have a kindly 
feeling of old friendship for her — and that is all. 
You know, too, that I have but little and she 
has nothing, therefore a marriage between us 
would be a pure piece of extravagance.” 

“That being the case,” resumed Fabrice, “I 
can go on and make you my confession. The 
letter informing me of the slight indisposition 
of my daughter also apprized me that she was 
completely restored to health, and I should not 
have made the journey to Paris had I not 
thought it was my duty to seize this occasion — 
this excuse — to bring my relations with Mile. 
Beatrice to a close. If possible, I desired to 
conquer the attraction that I felt toward her, 
which seemed to me not only dangerous to my 
own peace of mind, but disloyal toward you.” 

“Those scruples are worthy of you, dear mas- 
ter, but they are without foundation ; and if, 


RIVALS. 


95 


as I think I understand you to say, you have 
views in relation to Mile, de Sardonne, I re- 
peat that you have no rivalry to fear from me.” 

“You will excuse me for saying, my dear Mar- 
quis, that that is not quite sufficient for me. 
Mile, de Sardonne is nearly related to your 
family, and you and I stand on such terms that 
it would be impossible for me to abandon my- 
self to my feelings for this young girl if they 
did not have your approval.” 

Pierrepont bowed gravely, and Fabrice con- 
tinued : 

“Before giving your approval to my senti- 
ments, however, it is necessary that you should 
be acquainted with them. They are made up, 
I believe, of various elements, some sufficiently 
honorable, others, perhaps, less so. You shall 
decide. In the first place I can truthfully say 
that in my daily relations with Mile. Beatrice, 
whether in your aunt’s drawing-room or during 
our painting lessons, I have day by day felt an 
increasing sympathy, respect, and esteem for 
her misfortunes, her merit, and her noble bear- 
ing. It is impossible to display a more lofty 
resignation in bearing evil fortune ; it is impossi- 
ble to sustain with more becoming dignity a 
delicate and dangerous situation. I may even 
say, with equal truthfulness, that the idea of rais- 
ing this noble creature from the depths where 


9 6 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


she has been cast by destiny has possessed an 
infinite seductiveness in my eyes. Finally, how- 
ever, before everything else and from the first 
moment that I set eyes on her, her beauty con- 
quered me. You tell me that you have known 
Mile, de Sardonne from childhood, and it is 
possible that long acquaintance, as frequently is 
the case, has blinded you a little to the charm 
of her person, but that charm is very great. 
She has the pure, thoughtful, and somewhat 
tragic grace of those muses who wear a star 
upon their brow. She has, too, the grave and 
musical voice of a muse. To hear her read is 
an enchantment, and often while your aunt was 
sitting for her portrait, as I beheld and listened 
to the beautiful reader, I was so mad as to 
transport her in imagination to the atelier 
where we are sitting, which was then imme- 
diately transformed into a paradise of light. If 
I had met Mile, de Sardonne in the social con- 
dition to which she was born, it would doubt- 
less have been but the fleeting revery of an artist, 
one of those dreams that we often dream, — for 
we are most of us very aristocratic in our loves; 
we live three-fourths of our time, in imagina- 
tion, in the most exclusive society, — we are 
quite familiar in our visits to great ladies on 
their terraces and goddesses upon their clouds. 
It is even one of our great afflictions that we 


RIVALS. 


97 


have to come down from these ethereal regions 
and these ideal companionships to the prosaic 
earth and the platitudes of the actual. Espec- 
ially deep are our falls and bitter our disen- 
chantments in regard to love and marriage. 
Alas! who better than myself knows that? 
Well! as I was saying, had I met Mile, de Sar- 
donne in all the splendor of her birth and for- 
tune, I should have never thought of aspiring 
to her hand ; I am too well acquainted with the 
laws and customs of society for that ; but I be- 
held her, poor and unhappy, — and I was at 
least upon the road to fortune. It acted like 
an attraction to bring me closer to her; even, 
at the present moment I could offer her an 
independent existence, — set her beauty in a 
frame more worthy of it, — and I was gradually 
allowing myself to be seduced by so powerful 
a temptation, — when it seemed to me that your 
friendship for Mile, de Sardonne was develop- 
ing into a more serious attachment. From 
that moment the course that I ought to pursue 
was clear to me; I fled.” 

“My dear master,” said Pierrepont, “you are 
a great boy. You should have come to me 
and told me all that in private ; it would have 
saved you the trouble of your journey.” 

“If I were to give reality to this dream,” 
asked the painter, “might I then, my dear Mar- 


9 b 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR . 


quis, count upon your sympathy and your kind 
counsel?’’ 

“Of my sympathy you can have no doubt. 
As to counsel, it is a very delicate matter to 
give it in such a case. I would not like to be 
the means of inducing you to take a false 
step, — and above all I should wish to know to 
what extent Mile, de Sardonne reciprocates 
your sentiments.” 

“She is entirely ignorant of them,” said Fa- 
brice. 

“Are you quite sure of that? Has there 
never a word escaped you in your long tete-a- 
tetes, while the painting lessons were going on, 
that might give her cause to suspect them?” 

“Never. I was your guest.” 

“You acted like an honest man. From this 
time, however, as far as I am concerned, you 
are free. I have neither the right, nor have I 
the wish, to stand in the way of Mile, de Sar- 
donne’s happiness if she is to obtain it at your 
hands.” 

“But you have known her for a long time, 
my dear Marquis; do you think there is any 
hope that she would favor my request, even if 
I should venture to lay it before her?” 

“I hardly know what to say on that point. 
She is a rather incomprehensible person. They 
say that she has had some ideas of entering a 


RIVALS. 


99 


convent ; but that idea probably resulted from 
the absence of something better.” 

“Your aunt — what will she say?” 

‘‘My aunt values her reader very highly, and 
you must not look for much good-will from her. 
She has no legal authority over Mile, de Sar- 
donne, however, who is dependent solely upon 
her guardian, an old friend of her father, a very 
easy man. He would certainly yield to her in 
anything that she might desire.” 

After a short silence: 

“Do you think,” Fabrice resumed, “that she 
would like my daughter — that she would treat 
her kindly?” 

“What reason is there to think the contrary?” 

“I know of none. So your aunt is willing 
that I should take her down with me?” 

“She requests you to do so.” 

There was another interval of silence. Pierre 
was the first to break it : 

“Well, my dear master, is that all that you 
wish to ask me?” 

“That is all. I thank you a thousand times. 
Will you give me your address in England?” 

Pierrepont rose and wrote a couple of lines 
on one of his cards and handed it to him. 

“There it is. Batsford Park, Moreton in 
Marsh , Worcester. — Well! Au revoir ! ” 

“You start this evening?” 


IOO 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


“This evening — yes — exactly. An revoir ! ” 

They shook hands and parted. 

It was only by a supreme effort of his will 
and pride together that Pierrepont had endured 
to the end with apparent calmness a conversa- 
tion that had been for him a protracted torture. 
More than once he had had to appeal to his 
highest reason to avoid openly accusing Fa- 
brice of a refinement of cruel irony. It was in 
vain that the painter affirmed to him, with evi- 
dent sincerity, that Beatrice knew nothing of 
his love for her; what did he know about it? 
Women, in such circumstances, have a very 
subtle sense of divination, especially with a 
simple-minded man like Jacques Fabrice; per- 
haps the true cause of the refusal that Pierre- 
pont had encountered lay in that love that had 
been discovered by her who was its object, and 
that she was quite ready to return so soon as it 
should be declared to her? With the reputa- 
tion that Jacques had already acquired, it was 
well known that a great fortune awaited him in 
the future, and that even at the present mo- 
ment he had a large income at his disposition : 
that, too, might act as a powerful attraction to 
a young girl reared in luxury and weary of en- 
during privations. 

In short, while doing his best to convince 
himself that his fears were groundless, and that 


RIVALS . 


lot 


his rival would find Beatrice as inflexible as he 
himself had found her, Pierre could not relieve 
himself either from the bitter agony or the un- 
reasoning injustice of his jealousy. He was 
almost angry with Fabrice for an uprightness 
of conduct that had extorted his admiration, 
when he would have welcomed an opportunity 
of casting some scathing reproach in his teeth. 
It was, then, alas! with a feeling closely bor- 
dering on hatred that he parted at that mo- 
ment from the friend of his youth. The latter, 
too, on his side, carried away from their collo- 
quy an equivocal and painful impression. The 
Marquis’ courteous language and almost impas- 
sive physiognomy had not availed entirely to 
conceal the embarrassment and coldness with 
which his confidences had been received. After 
reflecting on it, however, he accounted for this 
constrained manner by a reason that was not 
entirely devoid of probability. At the first 
glance, there had doubtless been something 
that shocked Pierrepont’s mental habit in the 
thought of seeing a man of the humblest origin 
aspiring to the hand of a young lady of distin- 
guished birth who was almost a relative o" his 
own. It was in this same way that, more than 
once in the course of their relations of friend- 
ship, Fabrice had felt the prick of a point of 
aristocratic patronage piercing the kindly and 


102 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


liberal dilettantism of the Marquis, when the 
friend would assume a little of the airs of a 
Maecenas. The artist laughed at it, like the 
wise, just man that he was, knowing that such 
foibles exist in the blood, very willing to over- 
look them when accompanied, as they were in 
Pierrepont’s case, by true nobility of character. 

The evening of that same day Fabrice wrote 
to the Baronne de Montauron thanking her for 
her kind invitation, and on the second day 
thereafter he reached the Genets, accompanied 
by little Marcelle. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MARCELLE. 

M ARCELLE, the painter’s daughter, was at 
that time a pretty little girl of five, with 
her father’s broad, intelligent and thoughtful 
forehead, and a small body well supported by a 
pair of robust, well-turned legs. Mme. de Mon- 
tauron declared that she looked like a Span- 
iard. 

“Besides, my dear Monsieur Fabrice,” she 
added, “you too have the appearance of a Span- 
iard. Are you sure that you are not? I re- 
member seeing at St. Sebastian two or three 
years ago a toreador who was extremely like 
you.” 

“You flatter me greatly, Madame,’’ replied 
Fabrice, “but I am compelled to confess that it 
was not I.’’ 

The constituent elements of the company 
assembled at the Genets had changed some- 
what during the painter’s absence, but the femi- 
nine portion, though their ardor had been 
damped a little by Pierrepont’s departure, was 
still numerous and brilliant. 


103 


io 4 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


As a general thing, women, in their craving 
for objects on which to lavish their tenderness, 
are prompt to seize every decent opportunity 
of embracing some person or some thing Mar- 
celle, therefore, did not fail to attract to her 
pretty little person those effusive caresses of 
which her sex is so generously prodigal. Mile, 
de Sardonne was the only person among the 
inhabitants of the chateau who treated the child 
coldly and indifferently, addressing her, when 
she met her, only a few words in a curt, listless, 
almost surly tone. During the lessons, which 
she had resumed, she did not find a single kind 
word to say about Marcelle to her father. The 
little girl herself seemed to be sensible of the 
disdain with which she was treated, and was 
apparently afraid of this beautiful, contemptu- 
ous creature. Fabrice was entirely unaware of 
the frightful trial that Beatrice had just gone 
through, the recollection of which was still 
haunting her mind. Wounded and alarmed in 
his paternal fondness, he mentally accused the 
orphan of insensibility, empty pride and cold- 
heartedness ; he asked himself if his own senti- 
ments could ever expect the smallest return 
from this close-locked heart ; he asked himself, 
too, if he would not be endangering the wel- 
fare of his child, who was very dear to him, if 
he continued to pursue his dream of love. 


MAR CELLE. 105 

Among these perplexities passed the first week 
subsequent to his return to the Genets. 

He was sitting on a bench at the park entrance 
one beautiful morning toward the end of Sep- 
tember, waiting for Beatrice, who was a little late 
in coming to her lesson. Marcelle was running 
about and playing before him, making the dry 
leaves rustle beneath her feet. Every now and 
then she ceased her gambols to come and put 
up her cheek to her father for a*kiss. She was 
as carefully attentive to him as a little woman. 
She would re-tie his cravat when she thought 
the knot was not well made, flick a speck of 
dust from his coat, throw a handkerchief about 
his neck to keep him from taking cold if the 
wind was too fresh. Having discovered a few 
belated daisies among the grass, she now made 
a little bouquet of them and fastened it in her 
father’s button-hole with the assistance of a pin 
that she took from her hair; then she seated 
herself on the bench and proceeded to make 
herself as comfortable as possible, carefully 
smoothing down her skirts and snuggling up 
against her father. 

“Are you comfortable, father?” she said. “/ 
am very comfortable! How beautiful the 
woods are !” 

There had been a witness to this pretty scene 
for some minutes. Mile, de Sardonne, coming 


IO 6 an ARTIST'S HONOR. 

from the chateau with her color-box, had ap- 
proached unperceived ; she stopped, then came 
forward to the bench, and in her grave, melodi- 
ous voice : 

“You are very fond of each other,” she said. 

“We are all in all to each other,” replied Fa- 
brice, who had risen from his seat. 

She looked at him closely, then turning to 
Marcelle : 

“So you love your father a great deal, do 
you?” she asked. 

The child, intimidated by the presence of her 
enemy, answered by a gesture, simply laying 
her open hand upon her heart. 

“Dear little thing!” said Beatrice. “Give 
me a kiss, will you?” 

The little maid, greatly surprised, came 
slowly up to her. Mile, de Sardonne raised her 
from the ground, placed her with her feet upon 
the bench and clasped her to her bosom, 
smothering her with kisses. 

This passionate caress, coming from a person 
ordinarily so undemonstrative, affected Fabrice 
to the bottom of his soul, as if he himself had 
been the recipient of it. In the breath of those 
kisses, all fear, all anxiety, all distrust, vanished 
from his mind. He divined all the warmth of 
heart that the young girl, through a sort of 
modest shamefacedness, concealed beneath her 


MARCELLE. 


ip 7 

habitual coating of reserve. His passion, that 
had faltered for a moment, again took posses- 
sion of him with all its strength. 

Marcelle had returned to the chateau. Bea- 
trice took the place that she had left upon the 
bench, and applied herself to work under her 
master’s eye. 

She was finishing a sketch of a little chalet 
covered with a drapery of five-leaved ivy that 
served as a dwelling-place for the gardener. 
Fabrice looked at her work, took it from her, 
gave it a finishing touch here and there, and 
handing it back to her: 

“How good you were to my daughter!” he 
said. 

“Does that surprise you?” 

“No, assuredly — but — ” 

“Yes, it did surprise you — I read it in your 
eyes. I am well aware that I have not done 
much hitherto toward spoiling that little girl 
of yours. You must excuse me — I sometimes 
have so much upon my mind, I am so preoccu- 
pied. You were saying, Monsieur Fabrice, that 
you are all in all to each other, you and your 
daughter. Is it long since the poor child lost 
her mother?” 

“A little more than five years.” 

“You must have married very young?” 

“Yes, very young.” 


io8 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


“And the little one has no relative but you?” 

“She has an uncle, her mother’s brother.” 

“She is at the convent, isn’t she? At the 
Oiseaux, I believe?” 

“No, Mademoiselle, — at the Assomption 
d’Auteuil.” 

“Ah ! I know. She will do very well there ; 
it is a perfect paradise. Gracious! Monsieur 
Fabrice, how awkwardly those branches of my 
vine hang! How stiff they are! Ah! that 
wont do. I am beginning to be discouraged, 
Monsieur Fabrice!” 

“You have no reason to be, Mademoiselle. 
I assure you that you are making rapid prog- 
ress.” 

“But I shall never have talent, shall I?” 

“Pardon me,” replied the painter, with his 
somewhat blunt candor, “you will have a nice 
little amateur talent.” 

“Yes! But not a talent that will enable me 
to earn a living by it on a pinch?” 

“You might reach that point, — but then you 
would have to give more time to study.” 

“More time!” she murmured. 

Just at that moment the bell of the chateau 
rang twice. 

“That is for me !” said Beatrice, rising 
hurriedly and replacing her sketch in her box. 
“You see, Monsieur, what an easy matter it is 


MARCELLE . 1 09 

to follow your advice ! How much time I have 
at my command !” 

“Your life is not a happy one !” said Fabrice, 
casting upon her a glance of pity. 

“Monsieur Fabrice,” she answered, lowering 
her voice, but with great feeling, “to be un- 
happy, that is nothing. The terrible part of it 
is to feel evil thoughts rising in one’s heart !” 
Then she turned and went with rapid steps in 
the direction of the chateau. 

Fabrice immediately returned to his room. 
For a long time he walked to and fro between 
his bed-room and his sitting-room, swayed by 
an invincible irresolution ; finally he seated 
himself at his table, took a pen and wrote this 
letter: 

“Mademoiselle: 

“I write to you what I had not the courage 
to say. My letter will be brief. I respect you 
too highly to address you in the language of 
vulgar gallantry and admiration ; the only hom- 
age that I care to offer you is to place my des- 
tiny in your hands. Whether it is to be a 
happy or an unhappy one in the future depends 
on you alone. Is it not saying sufficient when 
I declare to you that all my being is impressed 
and filled to the point of distraction by your 
worth, your grace, your sorrows? My esteem 
for you is so great, Mademoiselle, that I seem 
to be committing a profane act in daring to 
love you. In a word, however, the little that I 


1 10 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


am, that I offer you in all humility : will you 
be a mother to my poor little girl? Will you 
be hers, and mine? 

“In any event, and forever, your respectfully 
devoted, 

“Jacques Fabrice.” 

As Fabrice, after having sealed his letter, 
was deliberating upon the safest and promptest 
way of getting it to its address, looking through 
the open window of his sitting-room he saw 
Mile, de Sardonne crossing the principal court 
of the chateau. This court, of vast dimensions, 
was partly in grass and was planted here and 
there with trees; in one corner a handsome 
catalpa formed a little nook in which were a 
few garden-chairs. Here Beatrice used to come 
sometimes to rest for a short moment in the 
afternoon, when the Baronne gave her a little 
breathing-space, and do a little reading on her 
own account. The painter called his daughter, 
who had a room adjoining his. 

“Darling,” said he, “Mile. Beatrice is sitting 
under that great tree that you see down there, 
near the chapel. Take this letter to her from 
me. Hurry, my dear.” 

An instant later Fabrice was watching with 
intense eagerness the child as she crossed the 
court. She disappeared in the dense shade of 
the catalpa. The long minutes passed slowly. 


MARCELLE. 


in 


At last Marcelle emerged from the circle of 
shade and came back toward the chateau with 
short, quick steps. It seemed to Fabrice that 
he saw his letter in her hand. He passed his 
ice-cold hand across his forehead, simply said, 
“My God!” and waited, motionless. 

Marcelle entered the room. “There, father !” 
she said. 

She handed him the folded paper that she 
had brought back. It was, in fact, the envelope 
of his letter, but the envelope alone, open and 
partly torn. On a corner of the paper was writ- 
ten in pencil this single word: “To-morrow.” 

After a pause: “Did she say nothing to 
you?” he asked the child. 

“Not a word.” 

“Did she kiss you?” 

“No.” - 

To those who are in love, or who can remem- 
ber the time when they were in love, it will be 
easy to imagine, without further description, 
the agitation of heart and mind, the feverish 
anticipation, the alternate fits of hope and 
deepest gloom that succeeded each other in 
Fabrice’s mind during the seemingly endless 
hours of the day and night that separated him 
from the morrow. He was, as usual, in Bea- 
trice’s company during the evening, but neither 
in her unruffled bearing nor in her eye, impas- 


I 12 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


sive as that of the sphinx, could he detect the 
least sign that might assist him to guess the 
riddle that was wrapped up in that word of 
hers: “To-morrow!” 

Would she write to him? Or would she give 
him a verbal answer when she came to take her 
usual daily painting lesson? 

He was at the rendezvous next day, long be- 
fore the usual time, seated on the bench where 
their conversation of the day before had taken 
place. She came, replied to his salutation by 
a slight nod of the head, took her place and 
prepared her colors without uttering a word ; 
then, at last, motioning to him to be seated : 
“Monsieur Fabrice,” she began in a constrained, 
but sweet, sad voice, “I am grateful to you, — 
very grateful, — but I do not wish to deceive 
you. I fear that my heart, stained, used, 
crushed as it is by suffering, may not be able 
to repay all that yours gives me, — I fear 
that my sincere sentiments of esteem and 
sympathy for you will be only a feeble re- 
sponse to those that you so kindly entertain 
toward me. I fear lest that may render you 
unhappy.” 

“Mademoiselle, I did not look to find in you 
at once the same infinite tenderness that you 
have inspired in me. I am aware that I must 
trust to time, to my loving attentions, to my 


MARCELLE. 


113 

life-long care for your happiness, to foster in 
you sentiments similar to mine.” 

“Monsieur Fabrice, we can never be certain 
of anything beyond the present, and I must 
tell you the % truth as it is. As to the future, 
all that I can promise is that I will do my best 
to be to you a good and loyal wife and to your 
child a kind mother.” 

Fabrice, with eyes moistened by emotion, 
took the white hand that she extended to him, 
as if to carry it to his lips, but she gently with- 
drew it. 

“Take care !” said she. “If you consider 
that you owe me any thanks, pay them to me 
later. There are too many eyes watching us 
here, — and I beg that you will not confide our 
secret to any one, at least not until I shall have 
communicated it to my — benefactress.” Mile, 
de Sardonne smiled with strange bitterness as 
she uttered this last word. 

“But, Mademoiselle,” said the painter, 
“should not I speak to her whom you call your 
benefactress?” 

“Certainly, that will be the respectful thing 
to do ; it is even necessary, but I think that I 
should speak to her first. I have my reasons 
for it.” 

“Good Heavens! Mademoiselle, we both of 
us know, is it not so? — that you will meet with 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


114 

unfriendly dispositions in that quarter, — that 
the conversation is likely to be made a distress- 
ing one for you. Let me spare you that 
annoyance ; or at any rate/’ he added with a 
smile, “let me be the first to receive her fire. 
I respect Mme. de Montauron very highly, but 
I am not afraid of her.” 

“Neither am I, for that matter,” Mile, de 
Sardonne replied. “If you have seen me sub- 
mit patiently to indignities that it is the part 
only of a hired servant to endure, you may rest 
assured that cowardice was not the cause of it. 
It would be showing that you knew but very 
little of me, if you thought — ” She stopped 
suddenly ; the two strokes of the chateau bell 
that summoned the reader to the Baronne had 
resounded. 

“I am coming,” she said, rising, and a gleam 
of displeasure glittered in her eye. She again 
gave her hand to Fabrice, and turned away 
toward the chateau. 

On the day when Mme. de Montauron had 
extorted from Beatrice the unconditional sur- 
render of her love for Pierrepont, she had really 
deprived the orphan of the only motive that she 
had for enduring the wretched life that she led 
in that house. From that moment, the quite 
comprehensible sentiment of concealed irrita- 
tion that the young girl cherished toward her 


MAR CELLE. 


IX 5 

cruel protectress had entirely changed its nature, 
and an invincible abhorrence had taken posses- 
sion of that self-controlled, but fiercely passion- 
ate soul. The very sight of the Baronne had 
become hateful to her. Her mind was fully 
made up to leave her, and she only hesitated as 
to the time and the selection of her place of re- 
treat. Her first thought, it will be remembered, 
had been to bury herself, as by a sort of moral 
suicide, in a convent of the most austere of the 
religious orders. She had again spoken to her 
friend, Mme. d’Aymaret, of her contemplated 
entrance to the Carmelites, and she was sincerely 
trying to prepare herself for this event, trans- 
ferring to heavenly objects a love which now 
had no future upon earth. It is less difficult, 
however, to initiate a sacrifice of this kind than 
it is to carry it out : as she thought the matter 
over more collectedly, the poor girl, in her 
natural attachment to life and to the world, 
in her strong and full-blooded youth, encoun- 
tered a repugnance to the idea of eternal 
renunciation that made it very painful to her. 
And yet, what could she do? whither could she 
turn? 

Fabrice’s letter and his declaration came 
to her unexpectedly as she was buried deep in 
this torturing indecision. She was at first 
greatly astonished, and even offended ; still she 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


1 16 

wished to give herself a few hours’ reflection 
upon the matter. There was more than one 
secret feeling of revolt that she had to contend 
with. But, after all, why should she not accept, 
in the extremity to which she was reduced, this 
honorable refuge that was offered her by a lov- 
ing and devoted heart? To a castaway like her 
it meant, if not happiness, at least security of 
life. More than all beside, it meant the as- 
sured, immediate end of her weary slavery. In 
addition to all this, she was not unaware that 
the announcement of her marriage and her ap- 
proaching departure would be excessively disa- 
greeable to Mme. de Montauron, and the pros- 
pect of telling her the news afforded Mile, de 
Sardonne the keenest pleasure, perhaps, that 
there is on the face of the earth, the gratifica- 
tion of one woman’s hatred for another. 

Mme. de Montauron had just quietly finished 
her siesta in a boudoir that adjoined the great 
salon. Her digestion was poor, and she gener- 
ally awoke in an unpleasant frame of mind. As 
soon as Beatrice entered the room : “It seems 
to me,” she said to her, “that you spend a great 
deal of time with your teacher. I have read 
the paper half through, — and it has hurt my 
eyes. Come — take the miscellaneous items to 
begin with, — or no, read me the feuilleton ; let 
us see what that wonderful duchesse is doing, 


MARCELLE . 


117 

into whose mouth the author puts the language 
of an old apple-woman. — Well! why don’t you 
read?” 

‘‘Excuse me, Madame,” the young girl said 
with extreme politeness, “may I say a few 
words to you first?” 

The Baronne looked at her with an unde- 
fined mistrust. ‘‘What is it?” she dryly asked. 

‘‘Madame,” Beatrice replied, “ will you allow 
me to remind you of the conversation that 
occurred between us in your room some two 
weeks ago? . You were so kind as to say that if 
ever some good man should come to me and 
offer his hand in marriage, not only should I 
have no opposition to fear on your part, but I 
might count upon your most strenuous assist- 
ance. Those words, Madame, were so precious 
to me that it was impossible for me to forget 
them. Will you kindly recall them to your 
memory?” 

The Baronne, who was not easily discon- 
certed, changed countenance at this exordium, 
and it was not in a very firm voice that she 
replied : 

“ Mon Dieu ! — it is possible, — yes. I may 
have said something like that, — but then there 
were reservations — ” 

“It is true, Madame; there were some reser- 
vations. You did, in fact, impose two condi- 


1 18 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


tions as the price of your kind concurrence : the 
first was that your nephew should not be in- 
cluded among the number of those from whom 
I might be at liberty to select a husband ; I 
have respected it. The second, Madame, was 
that I should never enter into an engagement 
without apprizing you of it, — and that is what 
I am now here to do.” 

“Very well! I am listening.” 

“Madame,” continued Mile, de Sardonne in 
the same tone of exquisite urbanity, “the occa- 
sion that you were so generous as to foresee and 
to desire for me has presented itself to-day.” 
“Ah!” 

“And I am here to beg you to assent to 
the request with which M. Fabrice has kindly 
honored me.” 

“Fabrice has made you a declaration?” 

“Yes, Madame.” 

“It seems to me that he might have come to 
me in the first place ; it would have been only 
one of the rudiments of good-breeding.” 

“He would doubtless have done so, Madame, 
but he considered it useless to trouble you on 
the subject before he had first ascertained what 
my personal sentiments were, — which were of 
more consequence to him than anything else.” 

“And so the idea of this marriage pleases 


MARCELLE. 


i J 9 

“Yes, Madame; M. Fabrice is an honest 
man and a man of talent, whose name I shall 
be proud to bear.” 

“I suppose you know to whom you are suc- 
ceeding? His first wife was a washerwoman.” 

“Pardon me, Madame, she was a florist.” 

“It is the same thing. You will see some 
queer society in that world of his.” 

“I shall be happy enough there, Madame, if 
I am treated with proper consideration.” 

“And so you are going away and leaving 
me, forgetting all that I have done for you since 
the time when I took you in as a friend, as a 
daughter.” 

“You may be sure, Madame, that I forget 
nothing of the strange kindness fhat you have 
shown me since you took me into your service.” 

There was one pleasing circumstance about 
Madame de Montauron, that she was quick to 
seize the nicest shades of language ; not a whit 
of the faultless impertinence and vengeful irony 
that her reader hurled at her devoted head was 
lost upon her. The Baronne had risen from 
her chair at this last stinging rejoinder; had it 
been in her power to call down the lightning 
from above, it is likely that Mile, de Sar- 
donne’s life would not have lasted longer than 
two seconds. If she could do nothing more, 
she could drive her ignominiously from her 


120 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


house, and she thought of doing it. A little 
reflection, however, showed her how much an- 
noyance would attend a rupture of this kind ; 
evil-disposed persons might attribute her oppo- 
sition to her protegee’s marriage, — which, after 
all, was a very suitable match — to a feeling of 
tyrannical selfishness on her part. Besides, 
whatever she might find it in her power to do 
subsequently, Beatrice was about to escape her. 
Irreparable as was her loss, her best course, 
therefore, was to make the best of it and as- 
sume the appearance, at least, and the merit of 
yielding gracefully. Finally, this stupid mar- 
riage had one good side, any way : it forever 
relieved Mme. de Montauron from the fear of 
seeing her nephew the husband of this penni- 
less girl. 

In virtue of these several different consider- 
ations, the warlike colloquy of the Baronne and 
her reader was destined to a rather unexpected 
determination, though one that was perfectly 
feminine in its nature. Mme. de Montauron, 
who had taken a few agitated steps about the 
room, came and gently placed her hand on 
Beatrice’s shoulder. 

“My dear child,” she said, “you must not be 
surprised that my first impulse on learning that 
you were going to leave me was one of ill- 
humor; for I have regrets, though you seem 


MARCELLE. 


I 2 I 


to have none. Come, my dear, give me a 
kiss !” 

Mile, de Sardonne contented her in this de- 
sire, and clasping her to her bosom, the Baronne, 
whose nerves were a little unstrung, burst into 
tears. They came to her like a consolation. 

“Do you know,” she asked in a voice choked 
with sobs, “how much he makes a year?” 

“I never asked him, Madame.” 

“These painters, once they are the rage, get 
whatever they ask for. You will be a rich 
woman, my dear! That is always the way!” 

“May I tell M. Fabrice now that you will re- 
ceive him, Madame?” 

“Of course — at the usual hour of our sittings. 
He will have to finish my portrait, I suppose. 
I will see him in half an hour.” 

Beatrice again presented her forehead and 
retired. She was not long in joining Fabrice 
at the park entrance, where she gave him a 
brief abstract of her interview with the Baronne. 

“You see, sir,” she said in conclusion, “that 
it passed off very nicely after all, and that she 
did not abuse me so terribly.” 

“That was because she knew that' she had a 
tough enemy to deal with,” said the artist, 
laughing; “but I am bound by my position as 
her guest to treat her with consideration and 
respect, and I am very much afraid that the 


122 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


storm which only grumbled above your head 
will beat down mercilessly upon mine.” 

“You will certainly have to look for some of 
her insolence, my poor dear sir. If you love 
me a little, however, you will put up with it 
patiently, so as not to mar matters, for, after all, 
they are going along very nicely.” 

“I give you my promise,” said Fabrice, “and 
now I hope that the trial may be a severe one, 
since I am to suffer for your sake.” 

“Thank you, sir. You understand, don’t you ? 
that it is my desire to get away from here as 
soon as possible, without scandal.” 

Their conversation was prolonged a little 
further time. As they strolled leisurely to and 
fro in the main avenue of the park, Beatrice 
gave her lover some details as to the person- 
ality of her guardian; to whom she proposed to 
write in the course of the day, but of whose 
consent she had no doubt. Then the time for 
the sitting having arrived, Fabrice returned to 
the chateau, and almost instantly found himself 
in the presence of the Baronne. Madame de 
Montauron had already assumed her position 
upon her fauteuil in the centre of her drawing- 
room. 

“Madame la Baronne,” said the painter, 
“Mile. Beatrice has told me that you have been 
so kind as to favor with your approval the union 


MARCELLE . 


123 


that I have had the extreme boldness to aspire 
to. I thank you, on my own behalf, so much 
the more warmly that you are depriving your- 
self in my favor of a friendship, a companion- 
ship, of which no one better than myself can 
understand the value.” 

“Mon Dieu ! my dear Monsieur Fabrice, 
what would you have? What is one man’s 
meat is another man’s poison. It is the way of 
life! But be seated. We will talk of these 
matters while you are working, since that does 
not disturb you.” 

He bowed, placed his easel, took up his 
palette and commenced to paint. 

“Do you think that you will be able to finish 
to-day, my dear master?” 

“I think that there will be need of two more 
sittings, Madame.” 

“Indeed!” said the Baronne. After a short 
silence she continued: “Well! to return to the 
subject of your marriage, my dear Monsieur 
Fabrice; you are about to marry a person of 
whom I can say nothing except in terms of the 
highest praise. Ever since she has been with 
me, her conduct has been positively exemplary, 
as you have been able to see for yourself. She 
is endowed with a thousand excellences that I 
appreciate infinitely, — and yet, notwithstand- 
ing all that, had you done me the honor to 


124 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


consult me before making the offer of your 
hand, perhaps I would have endeavored to dis- 
suade you from it.” 

‘‘May I know the reason why, Madame la 
Baronne?” 

“ Mon Dieu ! for the reason that when she is 
your wife, all the good qualities that I spoke 
of may turn out — in part, at least — to be so 
many annoyances. This is what I mean ; it is 
not I, most certainly, who will be the one to 
reproach her with her pride of birth and for hold- 
ing her name and herself in such high esteem, — 
but even in my eyes — who am naturally indul- 
gent on this point — Mile, de Sardonne carries 
this feeling to excess. She really has — this is 
between you and me — the pride of Lucifer; I 
fear that you have seen something of it, my 
dear sir. Understand, I do not go so far as to 
say that she will look down upon her hus- 
band, — who is above such a sentiment, emanat- 
ing from whomsoever it may, — but such an alli- 
ance as that which she is now contracting, — so 
perfectly honorable to her as it is in every re- 
spect, too, — is too repugnant to the traditions 
and customs of her family and our . society that 
Mile, de Sardonne should not feel more or less 
aggrieved by it in the secret recesses of her 
heart. Alas, my dear sir, I know as well as 
you that, looking at it in a reasonable light, all 


MARCELLE. 


I2 5 


this is simply absurd, — but let me say to you 
that I am better acquainted than you with the 
ideas that prevail in our social sphere upon this 
subject. They have suffered but little change, 
I assure you, since the days of Louis Four- 
teenth and Saint-Simon. Pardon me, I know 
what you are going to say, — you are going to 
tell me of the Revolution. Good Heavens! 
yes, certainly, there was a Revolution, — but if 
the Revolution deprived us of our privileges and 
even of our heads, it was not able to deprive 
us of the benefits springing from what you, I 
think, call atavism — that is to say, in old-fash- 
ioned French, the quality of a blood that has 
been distilled and refined in our veins from 
generation to generation for five or six hun- 
dred years. It is that blood, my dear master, 
that revolts in spite of ourselves when it is 
mingled with blood that is— newer — purer, per- 
haps , — Mon Dien ! I do not say that it is 
not ! — but which, in a word, is not of the same 
essence or the same azure hue ! Consequently, 
it is not the custom to-day, any more than it 
was before the Revolution, for a young lady of 
noble birth to marry a man who works for his 
living — a savant, an author, an artist, — no mat- 
ter how high they stand in their profession. It 
may be that women of title are sometimes seen 
to marry poets and artists, — but those are for- 


126 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


eign princesses! In France there is hardly an 
example of such a thing, — and do not suppose, 
my dear Monsieur Fabrice, that this exclusive- 
ness has in it anything in the least degree 
offensive toward those against whom it is di- 
rected — there is no class in the world that loves 
and enjoys poets and artists as we do; we take 
the greatest delight in making them the orna- 
ment of our tables, the interest and charm of 
our salons — but we don’t marry them ! Pardon 
me! you are about to say, are you not? that 
we are not so strict about the marriages of our 
sons, and that we are very glad to marry them 
to young ladies of little or no family, provided 
they are rich. I will answer you in the first 
place, that the custom is not a commendable 
one, and in the second place, that according to 
our ancient traditions it is the male who con- 
fers nobility, — a principle, please carefully note, 
that rests upon a very just conception of human 
nature: for women possess a niceness of in- 
stinct, a propensity for assimilation, a plas- 
ticity — correct me, my dear sir, if I express 
myself badly! — women, I say, possess qualities 
of flexibility which enable them to bend with 
ease to all conditions of social life. A little 
duchesse that will answer very well may be 
created from the daughter of a parvenu, whereas 
from the parvenu nothing can be made at all. 


MARCELLE. 


127 


There is no need to tell you, my dear master, 
that the word parvenu in my mouth means the 
man of money, not the man of talent ; the lat- 
ter, on the contrary, generally has something 
fejninine in his nature which enables him to be 
on terms of more or less equality with the most 
refined women. For do not forget, Monsieur 
Fabrice — and now more than ever I am talking 
to you as your true friend — do not forget that 
in our long years of family intermarriages and 
successions, it is not blood alone that is refined 
and purified, as I was saying a moment ago ; 
it is also education, taste, tact, savoir-vivre — all 
the senses and all the faculties. Hence arises 
that superior distinction that pleases you so 
much in Mile, de Sardonne — and which will be 
to you at once both a great charm and a great 
danger, — for a nature so exquisitely perfect 
revolts at a mere trifle, is offended by a noth- 
ing. You will have to be very careful, Mon- 
sieur Fabrice, — there are little things that seem 
to you utterly insignificant, that you do not 
even notice the existence of, which may ap- 
pear monstrous in Mile, de Sardonne’s eyes. 
Just one example — so small that it is not worth 
speaking of. When you speak to me you 
always address me as ‘Madame la Baronne!’ 
Well, rely upon it that that irritates Mile, de 
Sardonne, because it is quite incorrect to ad- 


128 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


dress women by their titles — in speaking to 
them in conversation ; that is only done upon 
the stage or in the ante-chamber. There are a 
thousand little things like that, my dear sir, 
that may endanger your married happiness and 
against which I would put you on your guard, 
were I not fearful of fatiguing you.” 

“You may continue, if you are not fatigued 
yourself, Madame,” the painter coldly replied. 
Notwithstanding this permission, the Baronne 
did not see fit to proceed further with her 
homily. 

Although Fabrice preserved his calmness, she 
probably saw by the paleness of his face that it 
would be a mistake to continue longer in this 
strain, and it is the truth that more than once 
he found it necessary to fortify himself by 
summoning up Beatrice’s image in order that 
he might not put an abrupt end to the sitting 
by plunging his palette-knife through the por- 
trait of his insolent sitter. When, a little while 
after, he gave Mile, de Sardonne an account of 
this unpleasant interview, he did not enter into 
details. “The Baronne,” he merely told her, 
“was as disagreeable as she could be in manner; 
but as in substance she restricted herself to let- 
ting me know that I am not worthy of you, we 
were really of the same opinion.” 

Mme. de Montauron had none the less at- 


MARCELLE. 


129 


tained the end that her venomous hatred had 
in view. She had accomplished the work of 
those poisonous insects whose almost imper- 
ceptible sting leaves the system impregnated 
with a corroding virus that is often fatal. 

It was not without embarrassment, and even 
anguish, that Mile, de Sardonne went the next 
morning to call upon the Vicomtesse d’Ayma- 
ret, whom she wished to inform, with her own 
lips, of her engagement to Fabrice. Mme. 
d’Aymaret, however, did not seem to take the 
matter ill, nor even to be astonished. Ever 
since the time when Beatrice had declined the 
Marquis de Pierrepont’s hand, she had retained 
a strong conviction, arising from the equivocal 
language and the partial confessions of her 
friend, that her heart was occupied, and now, 
in thinking the matter over, Jacques Fabrice 
was the only man among all the guests at the 
chateau whose person, talents, and reputation 
seemed to her to account for the passion by 
which Mile, de Sardonne was apparently pos- 
sessed. Her suspicions seemed to be corrobo- 
rated by the close intimacy between them that 
had resulted from the painting-lessons. It 
seemed clear to her that the young girl had 
given up the idea of entering the convent as 
soon as she learned that her love was returned, 
and Beatrice, only too glad that she had not to 


130 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR . 


invent an explanation, suffered her friend’s error 
to remain uncorrected. 

Mme. d’Aymaret, in the course of their con- 
versation, suggested to her an idea that she 
gladly adopted, and for which she had no diffi- 
culty in securing Fabrice’s approval. As their 
relations with Mme. de Montauron then were, 
it seemed impossible that their stay at the 
Genets could be protracted with pleasure, or 
even with propriety. It was arranged, there- 
fore, that Beatrice should go to Paris the follow- 
ing week, giving as a reason the necessary 
purchases for her trousseau and the prepara- 
tions for going to housekeeping. Until her 
marriage she would live with the sisters in the 
convent at Auteuil where little Marcelle was at 
school. Mme. de Montauron, who had trembled 
at the thought of being saddled with the ex- 
pense and trouble of a wedding, assented to 
this arrangement without a murmur. 

A few days after these events the Comte de 
Villerieux, Beatrice’s guardian, came and took 
her from the Genets and brought her with him 
to Paris, whither Fabrice and his daughter had 
preceded her. It may be imagined that the 
parting of the Baronne and her companion w r as 
a tearless one on either side. 

We shall say nothing for the present of the 
feelings that the intelligence of Mile, de Sar- 


MAR CELLE. 


I3i 

donne’s engagement to Jacques Fabrice inspired 
in the Marquis de Pierrepont. The letters that 
passsed between the two friends on this occa- 
sion would have no interest for the reader. 
That of Fabrice was a simple announcement of 
the event that had realized his dearest hopes; 
Pierrepont’s reply was brief and friendly. It 
was unfortunate that he had promised his host, 

Lord S , to accompany him in his yacht on 

a trip to the Mediterranean, but he hoped to be 
back in time to be present at the wedding. He 
entrusted him with his compliments and best 
wishes for Mile, de Sardonne. Almost coinci- 
dent with the receipt of this letter, a costly 
bracelet arrived from London addressed to Bea- 
trice. 


CHAPTER IX. 


GUSTAVE CALVAT. 

F OUR months have passed. We are at Paris, 
at Marianne de La Treillade’s mother’s in 
the Boulevard Malesherbes, or rather we are at 
Marianne’s, who has her own little private salon , 
where she finds herself more at ease to gossip , 
to use the expression that she so much affects. 
She is gossiping at this very moment, in com- 
pany with her faithful instructress, Miss Eva 
Brown, with the pretty American millionaire, 
Miss Kitty Nicholson, she who, as Pierrepont 
says, smells of petroleum, and Mile. Chalvin, 
that young person who, if her good mother is 
to be believed, kicks when she does not have 
her own way. These young ladies, whose 
intimacy dates from their stay at the Genets, 
have met again with mutual pleasure at Paris, 
whither they have come in rather late, as it is 
the fashion to do nowadays, from their respec- 
tive summer resorts. They are all pretty, not 
excepting the red and white governess, but the 
prettiest of them all is that pestilent little Mari- 
anne, with the pure oval and the ivory pallor 
132 


GUSTAVE CALVAT. 


133 


of her face, her big scornful eyes and her small 
rodent’s teeth. 

Marianne was stopping over in Paris at the 
time of Beatrice’s marriage, and she is now giv- 
ing her friends an account of that ceremony. It 
took place in the church at Passy. Beatrice 
had desired that it should be very unostenta- 
tious on account of her mourning and the mis- 
fortunes of her family. Owing to the season, 
too, there were not many people present. Still, 
Marianne had noticed among those who were 
there the faces of many concierges that were 
familiar to her, — she supposed they were rela- 
tives of the groom. Mme. de Montauron had 
not come, alleging an attack of rheumatism. 
She had sent a box with a dozen spoons to 
supply her place. It was contemptible ! The 
Marquis de Pierrepont, too, had missed the 
ceremony. He had sent a despatch from Malta. 
His absence had seemed strange, for he was 
Fabrice’s intimate friend — but he had probably 
feared that the bride might throw herself into 
his arms in front of the altar, he was so well 
satisfied with his own charming person and so 
perfectly certain that every woman doted on 
him ! Marianne thought that there was noth- 
ing in the world so detestable as a coxcomb. 
Miss Eva and Mile. Chalvin were of the same 
opinion. Miss Nicholson, timid though an 


134 


AN ARTIST S HONOR. 


American, was the only one to take up the 
cudgels for the Marquis. Marianne maintained 
her point, — he was a man whom she never could 
endure. “This Fabrice seems to me to be 
a decent kind of a man, — they have quite a 
nice house in the Rue de Prony, — my cousin 
d’Aymaret attended to the furnishing. Fabrice 
wanted to make a fool of himself, — my cousin 
d’Aymaret was telling me that she was forced 
to pull him up in his extravagance. He is not 
really rich, — he has only what he makes from 
day to day, — but it is true that he charges very 
high for his pictures. I would like to know, in 
parenthesis, what he charged the Baronne for 
her portrait. I would have salted her well 
if I had been in his place — for her dozen 
spoons !” 

“And the Marquis de Pierrepont,” said Miss 
Nicholson, — “is he still at Malta?’’ 

“No; he is just now at Cythera, I think.” 

“At Cythera?” 

“Yes, — at least I saw him at the theatre last 
evening with a lady who had very much the 
appearance of being of that country.” 

“Is he a hard case?” asked Miss Nicholson, 
blushing. 

“No; he cannot afford it!” Marianne re- 
plied. 

Mile, de La Treillade’s details respecting 


GUSTAVE CALVAT. 


l 3S 


Beatrice’s marriage and its attendant circum- 
stances, though not very good-natured in man- 
ner, were sufficiently correct as to substance, 
and will enable us to dispense with going more 
minutely into the subject. It was equally true 
that the Marquis de Pierrepont had returned to 
France some weeks previously ; but he had only 
passed through Paris, without stopping to see 
any one there, on his way down to the Genets, 
where his aunt was beginning to grow impa- 
tient. It was only within the last few days 
that he had returned with Mme. de Montauron 
to take up his abode at Paris and had defini- 
tively installed himself in his pretty entresol in 
the Boulevard Malesherbes, not far from the 
hotel where Marianne de La Treillade moved 
and had her being. 

The first visit that he made was to the Vi- 
comtesse d’Aymaret, who resided in that neigh- 
borhood, on the pare Monceau. He had sent her 
a line to notify her, and she was awaiting him 
with a rather heavy heart. She had not dared 
to write to him, and had received no direct in- 
formation from him since his departure for Eng- 
land. She could not forget that she had en- 
couraged him in his ill-starred passion for Mile, 
de Sardonne, that she had constituted herself 
his official envoy to the young lady, finally 
that she had contributed her full share to the 


1 3 6 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


humiliation that he had undergone, and the 
unendurable bitterness of which had been still 
further aggravated by Beatrice’s marriage to 
Fabrice. She was not without apprehensions, 
therefore, that there would be a scene of des- 
pair, perhaps even of anger and reproaches. 
She got off with a good fright, however. He 
appeared before her pale, but calm and cour- 
teous, smiling even. After having cheerfully 
replied to the questions that she asked him 
about his trip : 

“Dear Madame,” he said to her, “I am going 
to tax your kindness once more ; I have to ask 
your advice.” 

“I dojnot see how you can ever come again 
to me for advice,” she sadly replied. 

“I shall always do so. I confess to you that 
I am very undecided as to the attitude that I 
ought to assume toward Fabrice. You know 
how close an intimacy he and I have lived in 
for these many years past. I have no reason 
for severing my relations with him, but before 
going to see him, I should like to feel assured 
that my presence in his house will not be a 
cause of embarrassment either to him, to his 
wife, or to myself. In other words, do you be- 
lieve that Mile, de Sardonne — Mme. Fabrice, I 
should say — has told her husband of the feel- 
ings that I entertained toward her and of my 


GUSTAVE CALVAT. 137 

asking her for her hand? You will understand 
that if such is the case — ” 

“Pardon me if I interrupt you,” said Mme. 
d’Aymaret, “but I can assure you faithfully 
that you have nothing to fear in that respect. I 
saw Beatrice no longer ago than yesterday, and 
as there had been some talk of your return, she 
told me that she had reflected upon that mat- 
ter and decided never to impart any word of it 
to her husband. She considers that it would 
only be giving him an unnecessary annoyance, 
besides being wanting in delicacy toward you.” 

“Then you think that there would be no 
impropriety in my calling upon them?” 

“There would be more impropriety, I think, 
in your not calling. Fabrice would not under- 
stand your staying away ; he would try to ac- 
count for it, and would at last suspect the true 
reason : which would not do any one any good. 
It would be my advice, therefore, to relax 
those relations which must henceforth be a 
source of pain to you, but not break them off 
abruptly.” 

“You are right — I will go there — I will go 
directly I leave here. Do you think that I shall 
find them at home? Has Mme. Fabrice a day 
for receiving?” 

“Yes, Mondays — and to-day is Tuesday. 
You are always sure to find Fabrice in his 




AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


studio, however — and probably his wife also, 
for I believe that he is painting her portrait.” 

“Ah ! that will interest me.” 

After this they talked a while on the new 
pieces at the theatres, on various bits of society 
gossip, and soon after he took his leave. As 
he affectionately clasped her hand : 

”1 am very glad,” the young woman feelingly 
said to him, “to see that you take the matter 
so discreetly !” 

“Travel is a good education for youth,” Pierre- 
pont replied with a laugh, as he left the room. 

When she congratulated him upon his discre- 
tion, Mme. d’Aymaret had hoped to elicit some 
expression of confidence, of which she really 
stood in need, for her apprehensions of re- 
proaches and violence on the part of this lover 
who had been treated with such cruelty had 
proved groundless, and she had found him in*a 
state of calmness and cold reserve that left her 
half offended, half alarmed. If this indifference 
of Pierrepont’s was unaffected, it evinced a 
frivolity that women do not permit in affairs of 
the heart, but her knowledge of the Marquis’ 
proud, self-poised character led her rather to fear 
that this apparent coldness was only a mask to 
conceal one of those wounds that are so much 
the more dangerous and painful that all the 
bleeding is internal. 


GUSTAVE CALVAT. 


139 


Ten minutes later Pierrepont was at Fabrice’s 
door, and following the direction of a servant, 
he ascended to the painter’s atelier with the 
familiarity of former days. He gave a low 
knock, and raising a portiere, he found himself 
face to face with Beatrice, whose lips parted as 
if they would have uttered a cry, but she re- 
mained silent. She was seated at a few paces 
from Fabrice’s easel, holding in one hand a 
book, while with the other she smoothed little 
Marcelle’s long, flowing hair as she kneeled be- 
side her. The interior of this great apartment, 
hung with tapestry and unostentatiously fur- 
nished with a few cabinets of severe design, 
formed one of those homely scenes such as we 
behold in the pictures of the old Flemish mas- 
ters, — where the noble joys of labor seem 
blended with the sweeter ideals of happiness 
and domestic repose. 

Fabrice uttered an exclamation of delight 
and came forward to greet Pierrepont, in whose 
mind the frank cordiality of this reception left 
no room for doubt as to Beatrice’s discre- 
tion. It left him more at ease to congratulate 
the young couple on their new home. He 
reiterated his excuses for not returning for the 
wedding, having been detained at Malta by a 

serious indisposition of his friend Lord S- . 

Beatrice’s hand, resting on Marcelle’s head, 


140 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


opened and shut rather convulsively, causing 
the jewels in her rings to scintillate in the light ; 
it was the only sign by which the young woman 
betrayed any emotion. She thanked Pierre- 
pont for the bracelet which he had sent her 
from London and extolled its good taste ; then 
she inquired with interest for news of Mme. de 
Montauron’s health. Pierrepont replied that 
his aunt was growing younger every day and 
that it did one good to look at her. No one 
saying anything in contradiction to this, — 
although every one had his own thoughts, — the 
Marquis, after warmly praising the half-finished 
portraits, which were really assuming the ap- 
pearance of masterpieces, said he would not 
interrupt the stance any longer and took his 
leave. 

He withdrew, carrying with him in his imagi- 
nation a vivid picture of this happy and honest 
home, a picture which quite frequently operates 
as a temptation to blast men of his age, and 
which he himself had so often dreamed of with 
such sincerity of longing. 

Alas ! how deceptive they are at times, these 
appearances of happiness! How often, coming 
at evening into the reposeful atmosphere of a 
family drawing-room, how often, passing before 
the open gate of some cheerful villa, full of sun- 
shine, flowers and children, we say to ourselves: 


GUSTA VE CAL VAT. 14 I 

“There is happiness!” And how many times 
we are mistaken ! 

As Fabrice beheld her, listened to her, and 
admired her for the first time in Madame de 
Montauron’s white drawing-room, with her 
muse-like beauty and her grave, melodious 
voice, such Beatrice stands before him now, and 
she is his wife ! and at the same time his daugh- 
ter, his art, everything that he loves in life, are 
here beneath his eyes, at his hand, close to his 
heart, — and he is not happy ! The envenomed 
insinuations of Madame de Montauron crawl 
back too often into his memory. He thinks 
that he can see in Beatrice’s manner toward him 
a kind of resigned melancholy, a constrained 
demeanor, a rather disdainful coldness, which 
seem to bear out the Baronne’s perfidious 
prophecies. Although the beautiful statue is 
his, he seems to feel that it is not entirely his 
own ; that there is within it a something that 
holds back, a depth of passionate fondness that 
does not surrender to his summons, that it is 
holding in reserve. As it is impossible for him 
to suspect that he has a rival in her heart, he 
takes the blame upon himself, and a little also 
he attributes to his surroundings. He suffers 
from a vague uneasiness: he watches himself 
with painful distrust, he is in constant fear of 
committing some solecism in language, in dress, 


142 AN AX Tf ST’S HONOR. 

in personal habits, which may be offensive to 
the delicate instincts, the refined taste, and the 
superior culture of his young wife. He also 
stands in dread of the repugnance that she may 
feel at being brought in contact with some 
rather common acquaintances, whom his pro- 
fession and old companionship have inflicted on 
the artist. 

The fears that beset Fabrice are, unfortu- 
nately, not very remote from the truth. 
Although she married him from an impulse of 
despair, Beatrice entered his house like an 
honest woman, firmly resolved to smother every 
feeling that conflicted with her new duties and 
attach herself to her husband ; but though she 
admires his talent, there is a commercial and 
industrial side to the painter’s art that shocks 
the young patrician. It causes her annoyance, 
too, almost suffering, to notice, in the little com- 
monplace circumstances of their every-day life 
slight errors of taste, petty faults of ignorance, 
venial transgressions against custom,, which 
show only too clearly to what extent the 
early education of the poor artist has been neg- 
lected. Women born and brought up like Bea- 
trice will pardon a vice, perhaps even a crime, 
more easily than they will pardon a breach of 
etiquette. Fabrice, knowing his wife’s fondness 
for open-air sports, had wished her to resume 


GUSTAVE CALVAT. 


M3 


her riding. He had himself taken up horseback 
exercise as a habit two or three years before, 
and he went quite regularly to take a turn in 
the Bois of a morning. He was a good rider, 
bold, and firm in his saddle, but he rode with- 
out any attention to rules and inelegantly. 
This distressed his wife ; she would frequently 
manufacture some pretext for not accompany- 
ing him, preferring to deprive herself of her 
favorite pleasure rather than see the smiles on 
the faces of the correct habitiids of the Avenue 
des Acacias as her husband passed them. 

It was also the truth that among those who 
were in the habit of frequenting Fabrice’s studio 
there were, as is the case in all studios, a few 
amateurs and youthful companions, more or 
less connected with art and literature, whose 
tone and manners were extremely distasteful 
to Beatrice. The painter endeavored to dis- 
embarrass himself of these parasitical visitors 
by alleging the demands of his daily labors on 
his time ; he especially endeavored to rid him- 
self of those who brought with them an odor of 
Bohemia. Among the latter class was unfor- 
tunately one whom Fabrice thought himself 
compelled to bear with and treat with considera- 
tion, and it so chanced that this was the very 
one for whom Beatrice had conceived the 
greatest aversion. His name was Gustave Cal- 


144 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


vat; he was the brother of Fabrice’s first wife, 
and consequently little Marcelle’s uncle. His 
relations with Jacques went back to the remote 
epoch when they had both been pupils in the 
same atelier, under the same master, so that 
they had a common point of departure. While 
Fabrice, however, concentrating his continuous 
efforts upon his austere labor, had by degrees 
attained to eminence in his art, Gustave Calvat 
had been squandering and frittering away his 
energies in empty words, projects, theories, tran- 
scendental criticisms and aesthetic dissertations, 
which made the folks of the boulevard des 
Batignolles stare with wonder. “You do too 
much talking and not enough sketching,” Fa- 
brice had mildly told him. 

Calvat had been looking for a long time for 
the kind of painting that would be best suited 
to the age and to himself. Several times he 
had thought that he had made the discovery. 
During a trip to Italy that he had made at 
Fabrice’s expense he had become infatuated 
with the early masters, and had returned, swear- 
ing by no other gods than Ducio, Cimabue, 
Giotto, Taddeo Gaddi, Masaccio, Perugino, — 
going off into ecstasies over the mosaics of San 
Miniato and early Byzantine simplicity. “That 
is the spring,” he would say, with an eloquence 
that was too often irrigated by alcohol, “in 


GUSTAVE CALVAT. 


145 


whose cool, fresh waters the effete art of the 
nineteenth century must be re-baptized. He, 
personally, would make himself the apostle 
and the precursor of a new renaissance. He 
was profoundly penetrated with the manner, 
the inspiration of those admirable early masters 
of art. And in what did that manner consist? 
In sincerity, naturalness, faith! The artist' 
should begin by boldly passing the sponge over 
the history of the world since the year 1400 — 
forget once and for all the existence of a Luther, 
a Voltaire, the taking of the Bastille, the prin- 
ciples of ’89, et caetera, et caetera — shut his 
eyes, retire within himself, go down on his 
knees inspirit among a chapter of old monks of 
the fourteenth century, — and then open his 
eyes again and cast his looks on high, simply, 
humbly, like a little child saying his prayer — 
and then — then, seize his palette and paint !” 
And thereupon, with an energetic movement of 
his index finger, he would draw upon the air the 
principal lines of an imaginary masterpiece. 
It was a strange sight to see Gustave Calvat 
explain in pantomime, as he was’wont to do, 
this tremendous theory, occasionally displaying 
upon his Bohemian visage pre-raphaelite ex- 
pressions and motions of the eyes. 

After painting an Annunciation upon a 
background of gold, and a Holy Family with 


146 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


very long hands upon azure, he conceived a 
disgust for the early masters, — with good rea- 
son ! — and passed over to imitation of the Vene- 
tians, then to the Dutch and Flemish school, 
which approached more nearly to nature, and 
finally to nature herself ; this was his most recent 
avatar. At last he had succeeded in grasping 
Truth! He set himself to work, therefore, 
copying nature, always with the simplicity of a 
little child, and from this time forth his works, 
which had successively resembled those of every 
one, bore no resemblance to anything. 

Fabrice vainly tried to make him understand 
that art in no wise consists in copying nature, 
which is in itself stupid and inert, but in reflect- 
ing upon it the ideal that it develops within 
our intelligence and in giving it a little of the 
soul that we have and it has not. Calvat called 
him a parlor painter, a bed-room landscapist, 
and finally consigned him to the common 
grave of unclean idealism, that is to say, the 
Institute. 

Jacques, who seldom bore malice, laughed 
freely at the empty balderdash of his brother- 
in-law and his gesture painting. What was not 
so easy to pardon in him, however, was his dis- 
orderly life, which was almost wholly spent in 
cafes and beer-gardens, while still harder to 
overlook than this were the wickedly envious 


GUSTAVE CALVAT. 


147 


spirit and the odious vilification with which he 
followed and persecuted any one who had more 
talent than himself. In spite of all his faults, 
Fabrice continued to receive this unpleasant 
relative on a footing of friendship, and even to 
respond to the frequent appeals that he made 
to his pocket-book. This was, in the first place, 
owing to the pious remembrance that the good 
man bore to that first wife of his, who had no 
doubt been a tiresome creature while she was 
alive, but who was now lying, a poor corpse, in 
her cold grave ; it was also because this rascal 
of a Calvat had one virtue, at least, — that of 
loving his niece, little Marcelle; and one merit, 
that of pleasing the child, or rather of amusing 
her. With his taste and gifts of mimicry, he 
would act scenes from Punch and Judy for her: 
he could reproduce heads of animals on the 
wall with his hands, could imitate their cries, 
could imitate, too, the sound of different musi- 
cal instruments: in fine, could play a thousand 
tricks and produce a thousand grimaces which 
would elicit from Marcelle shouts of delight 
that sounded very sweetly in her father’s ear. 

At first sight, and we might also say at first 
smell, this tall, shambling, gesticulating old 
bachelor, always redolent of beer and tobacco, 
with his long nose like the beak of a bird of 
prey, his sticky mustache and his suspicious 


148 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


finger-nails, had been an excessively disagree- 
able object to Beatrice’s eyes. She had been 
touched by the generosity of the reasons by 
which Fabrice had thought it his duty to ex- 
plain to her the cause of his consideration for 
his brother-in-law, but none the less it was 
a sorrow and a mortification to her that she 
had to submit to the familiar intimacy of this 
person. 

Calvat, for his part, had looked with great 
disgust on Fabrice’s marriage with this great 
lady, of whose disdain he had a very accurate 
presentiment, and who could not fail to inter- 
fere with his cherished habits. In the first 
place, he complained bitterly that every time 
he went to his brother-in-law’s now, he was 
compelled to put himself on his thirty-six , — 
which was probably his slang expression for 
washing his hands. Apart from this substantial 
grievance, he felt for Beatrice that aversion that 
was always inspired in him by any physical, in- 
tellectual, or moral superiority. Finally, she 
threatened the single honest sentiment that 
remained to him : he feared that she would de- 
prive him of a portion of Marcelle’s affection 
and that she would do what she could to sep- 
arate him, more or less, from the child. 

For all these reasons Gustave Calvat hated 
Beatrice as much as she despised him, and the 


GUSTAVE CAL VAT. 


149 


mutual antipathy of these two beings whom 
chance had brought together, and who differed 
so widely from each other in character and 
education, could not but increase and become 
more envenomed by lapse of time. 


CHAPTER X. 


NEWS FROM THE BARONNE. 

T HE attachment manifested by married men 
for those individuals who possess the love 
of their wives is such an unvarying and remark- 
able fact that it deserves to be classed among 
scientific phenomena, — perhaps among the phe- 
nomena of suggestion. Poor Fabrice was fated 
not to escape this doom ; ever since Pierre- 
pont’s return, he had evinced an increase of 
friendship for him, which might also have been 
accounted for, perhaps, by his desire to secure 
for his wife the society of a man who moved 
in her own circles. Pierrepont having naturally 
shown some unwillingness to make frequently 
repeated visits to the young couple, the painter 
reproached him for it, and showed such urgency 
that it almost became embarrassing. Of all 
the involuntary blunders that Fabrice may have 
been guilty of toward his wife, it was not this 
one that shocked her least. Quite oblivious of 
the fact that her husband was entirely unac- 
quainted with her own and Pierrepont’s secret, 
150 


NEWS FROM THE BARONNE . 15 1 

she could see in his determined persistency in 
bringing the Marquis to their house nothing 
but a want of tact, an irritating awkwardness, 
and, moreover, a real cruelty toward herself. 
What ! when she was wearing herself out with 
strenuous efforts of courage and of will to banish 
from her thoughts him whom she had loved so 
well, it was her husband who took him by the 
hand and brought him back to her and thrust 
upon her his disturbing presence ! It was a 
new grievance to be added to those which she 
had already laid up against him, and which had 
no more foundation in justice than the others. 
When, however, a woman is so unfortunate as 
not to love her husband, she always finds rea- 
sons to palliate in her own eyes a wrong that 
her conscience reproves her for, and she gener- 
ally does this in good faith, for to her embit- 
tered mind everything is an offense, to her 
ulcerated heart everything is a wound. 

Still, Beatrice had a soul too lofty to yield to 
the vulgar temptation of abusing her husband’s 
blindness. She therefore persisted in the line 
of conduct which she had traced out for herself 
in advance in anticipation of Pierrepont’s re- 
turn, and it became the easier to keep him at a 
distance that he appeared of his own motion to 
avoid her with an assiduousness and a pride 
that were equal to her own, manifestly prefer- 


152 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


ring to incur the reproaches of the husband 
rather than the scorn of the wife. 

Fabrice, while bitterly conscious of the repel- 
lant coldness that Beatrice unalterably mani- 
fested toward him, did not despair of ultimate- 
ly gaining her over by dint of his generous and 
delicate attentions. After spending the whole 
winter in decking out his ungrateful idol and 
doing his best to spoil her, he hired for her for 
the summer a pretty villa between Meudon and 
Bellevue, which, among other attractions, had 
that of bringing her into the vicinity of her 
friend Mme. d’Aymaret, who was to pass the 
season of that year at Versailles. The dwell- 
ing, which, on account of certain favorable 
peculiarities in its arrangement, had been fre- 
quently occupied by painters, was quite unpre- 
tentious, but it overlooked the pleasant valley 
of the Seine, and in the background rose the 
grandeur of the vast Parisian mirage. The 
ground floor opened directly on the level of an 
immense garden which sloped gently downward 
almost to the Seine, with clumps of trees, lawns 
and beds of shrubbery, all somewhat neglected 
and in a state of nature; midway down the 
slope was a kind of tool-house of spacious 
dimensions, enclosed and glazed, which served 
Fabrice as a studio. Quite at the bottom of the 
garden was a long, straight alley, bordered on 


NEWS FROM THE BARON NE. 153 

either side by a trellised hedge, which its stately 
aspect seemed to indicate had once formed part 
of a park of some ancient chateau. Beneath it 
passed a deeply sunken public road. It was 
bounded at either extremity by high walls, 
against one of which had been set up a target 
for pistol practice. Facing it, at the other ex- 
tremity, was a rustic bench. 

This alley, although some openings had been 
made among the trees to afford glimpses of the 
surrounding landscape, was a peculiarly retired 
and solitary spot, and the painter’s wife had 
taken a great liking to it. She was indulging 
her revery there one afternoon in July, when 
she saw Mme. d’Aymaret appear at a turn in 
the pathway, who gayly accosted her, saying: 

“I knew very well that I should find you here 
in the alley of sighs!” 

Then, after an exchange of kisses, she con- 
tinued : 

“I have a piece of news for you — something 
that will surprise you. The poor Baronne, who 
flattered herself that she was safe to live thirty 
years yet — ” 

‘‘What?” exclaimed Beatrice, grasping her 
friend violently by the arm. 

“She died last night, my dear, — of an attack 
of gout that went to the heart. Pierrepont 
notified me by telegram, requesting me to — ” 


i54 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


Mme. d’Aymaret stopped short in what she 
was saying ; Beatrice, who had all at once turned 
deathly pale, was looking at her with a fright- 
ful stare — her mouth contracted in a feeble, con- 
vulsive movement, she leaned for support 
against the hedge ; then her strength quite aban- 
doned her, and she fell to the ground. 

The Vicomtesse uttered a low cry and 
seemed to hesitate a moment ; then recogniz- 
ing that the house was too far away for her to 
make herself heard there, she kneeled at the 
side of the fainting woman and made her inhale 
her smelling-salts, lavishing tender words upon 
her meanwhile. Beatrice gradually recovered 
consciousness, and as she arose with a wild, 
stupefied air: 

“What has happened me?” she murmured. 
Then suddenly her brow contracted into 
wrinkles and her pale face was suffused with 
scarlet: “Ah! I remember!” 

“Shall I go and call your husband?” said 
Mme. d’Aymaret, assisting her to a bench. 

“No, — no — besides, he is at Paris. Have 
you the dispatch?” 

“Here it is.” 

Beatrice read the telegram, and allowing her 
arms to fall at her side in a gesture of despair : 

“Ah! My God!” she said, almost in a whis- 
per, “is this the end?” And as Mme. d’Ayma- 


NE IV S FROM THE BAROHNE. 155 

ret regarded her with stupefaction depicted on 
her face: “You think that I am mad?” she 
continued. “You cannot account for the emo- 
tion that this woman’s death causes me?” 

“It is true; I do not understand, — I do not 
understand at all.” 

“Well! — you shall know; but promise me 
upon your honor that what I am about to tell 
you shall forever remain a secret between us 
two !” 

“I promise — you frighten me. What has 
happened ?” 

“What has happened, my poor Elise, is that 
I loved the Marquis de Pierrepont — I have 
loved him all my life ; and I refused his hand 
because his aunt swore to me that she would 
disinherit him if he married me, — and now — • 
she is dead — she is dead, a few months after my 
marriage to another; and if I had waited those 
few months I should have been his wife — and 
now he is lost to me forever — and I have loved 
him — all my life !” 

She covered her face with her hands and 
sobbed. 

To Mme. d’Aymaret, who until this moment 
had never imagined otherwise than that Bea- 
trice had married Fabrice from an impulse of 
passion, this disclosure came with such startling, 
such overwhelming effect that she could only 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


* 5 6 

reply at first by confused exclamations of sur- 
prise and pity. 

“Ah! can it be possible! — Poor friend! My 
poor darling! Why did you not tell me that 
at the time !” 

Beatrice then related to her briefly, in broken 
sentences, what had passed less than a year be- 
fore between her and the Baronne de Montau- 
ron, — the promise of silence that she had given, 
a promise from which she was now relieved by 
the hand of death. 

“And even though I had been free at that 
time to entrust you with my secret,” she added, 
“I would not have done it ; I knew you, — you 
could not have kept it,- — you would have told 
the Marquis everything. He would hc v e 
braved his aunt, and the evil would have been 
accomplished. I should have been the cause 
of his ruin, and perhaps he would have brought 
it up against me as a reproach some day : in 
any event I should have reproached myself ! 
No, don’t you see, my only mistake was in not 
following my first impulse — in not entering a 
convent, — in place of contracting this wretched 
marriage — and deceiving an honest man !” 

“But this honest man that you speak of,” 
said Mme. d’Aymaret, “who is a man of great 
tenderness as well as of great talent, can you 
not bestow on him a little of your love?” 


NEWS FROM THE BARONNE. 157 

“I have tried — I could not before. Judge if I 
can now!” Beatrice replied with a passionate 
outburst. 

In reply to the affectionate questioning of 
her friend, she confided to her all her domestic 
griefs, her constantly wounded susceptibili- 
ties, her concealed subjects of disgust. Mme. 
d’Aymaret affected to make light of these petty 
evils as compared with the great troubles of life ; 
she very justly observed to Beatrice that all 
that was required in order to smooth away these 
trifling inequalities of education between her 
and her husband was that she should make an 
effort of her will and give him, pleasantly and 
good-naturedly, a few lessons in etiquette and 
deportment, which he would certainly receive 
in the same spirit in which they were given. 
Beatrice’s real trouble lay in that love which, 
against her will, as it were, she had brought 
from abroad into her home ; it was this love 
that was sapping her courage, that was poison- 
ing everything for - her; she must give it up, 
once and for all. 

“That is easily said !” Beatrice murmured. 

Mme. d’Aymaret, assuming a more confiden- 
tial tone, gave her to understand that it was diffi- 
cult, but not impossible; that she herself had 
been called on to make a similar sacrifice a few 
years before. “And you will admit, my dear,” 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


158 

she added, “that I had more to excuse me than 
you have!” 

“And how did you set about it?’’ asked Bea- 
trice, who seemed interested in this mysterious 
transaction. “Did you cease seeing him?’’ 

“My dear, to cease seeing one is an empty 
word. We never cease seeing each other when 
we move in the same circle. No, I simply and 
frankly converted my love into friendship. In 
this manner the heart is not bankrupted.’’ 

Beatrice looked her straight in the eyes : 
“Was it Pierrepont?’’ she said, very gently. 

“It happened four years ago,’’ replied Mme. 
d’Aymaret. “I do not remember very accu- 
rately, — but it was some one that was very like 
him. You need not be alarmed, however; he 
never loved me as he loved you.” 

Beatrice hesitated, then drew her friend to 
her bosom, and as she embraced her, they both 
shed tears. 

“Well, I will try,” said Beatrice. “I shall 
have you to assist me with advice and example. 
But you are a wise little woman, and I am only 
a poor distracted creature. But never mind, I 
am glad now that I shall be able to talk all these 
things over with you. But above all things, 
never a word, never a whisper that may lead 
the Marquis to suspect what I have confided 
to you !” 


NEWS FROM THE BARONNE. 159 

“If I were to be guilty of such an indiscre- 
tion,” said Mme. d’Aymaret with a laugh, “I 
should not be a wise little woman.” 

It was beginning to grow dark and she was 
compelled to go. She was assiduous in return- 
ing to her friend for some days, however, until 
she seemed to recover somewhat of her calm- 
ness. Still, however, although she showed her- 
self submissively docile under Mme. d’Aym- 
aret’s kind exhortations, Beatrice could not fail 
to continue deeply affected by the reflections 
and regrets that were inevitably suggested to 
her by Mme. de Montauron’s death: she could 
not fail to find her duties more difficult of per- 
formance and her trials more bitter to be borne. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“fin d e s I e c l e.” 

M ADAME de Montauron having made no 
other disposition of her property, the Mar- 
quis de Pierrepont legally inherited the whole 
of it, which placed him in the enjoyment from 
this time forth of an annual income of over four 
hundred thousand francs. He passed the first 
days of his period of mourning alone at the 
Genets, occupying himself with hunting, and 
returned to Paris toward the end of October. 
Here he installed himself in the great hotel of 
the Rue de Varennes that had belonged to his 
aunt, but he retained his entresol in the boule- 
vard Malesherbes, which brought a sly smile to 
the face of the ladies. Even in his days of com- 
parative poverty, he had always been looked 
upon with favor in Parisian society, where his 
chivalrous grace, the dignity of his personal 
character and his discreet gallantry had seemed 
to give him a tone of most perfect distinction. 
It was not without surprise, therefore, that he 
was seen to appear again upon the stage where 
he was so well known and so highly esteemed 
160 


“ PIN DE SIECLE." 161 

with habits that were far less irreproachable. 
As far back as the preceding winter, after his 
return from London, his acquaintance had 
noticed singular differences in his mode of life. 
He had frequently been seen at the theatre, in 
the obscurity of a proscenium box, accompanied 
by young women who were doubtless very 
agreeable, but with whom it is not customary 
for a man to show himself in public when he 
has passed the period of youth. It may be 
remembered that this circumstance had not 
escaped the sharp eyes of Marianne de La Treil- 
lade. He had also exhibited himself on horse- 
back in the Bois with amazons not remarkable 
for timidity, which was no less astonishing on 
the part of a man who was looked up to as an 
authority on all questions of good-breeding. It 
was even reported that he had brought back 
with him from England a vice that seems to be 
less infrequent there than it is among us; at 
least the Vicomte d’Aymaret, who might be 
supposed to know as much about it as any one, 
told his wife that that devil of a fellow of a 
Pierrepont had brought home with him a very 
nice little appetite for port and brandy. 

The two persons who, in all Paris, interested 
themselves beyond all others in the Marquis de 
Pierrepont, Beatrice and Mme. d’Aymaret, to 
wit, were greatly distressed about this time by 


162 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


these ugly rumors, but they had chosen to 
believe that all this talk was nothing but cal- 
umny. 

The heir to Mme. de Montauron’s rich inheri- 
tance had no more than returned to Paris, how- 
ever, than, as if intoxicated by his newly 
acquired fortune, he made such public display of 
his breaches of propriety that it became impos- 
sible even for those who were most kindly dis- 
posed toward him to fail to notice the strange 
metamorphosis that had taken place in his 
character. He had never been puritanical, but 
he had always been credited with treating his 
gallant adventures with the delicacy which they 
seem to demand, which, to a well-bred man, 
appears to consist in not admitting the public 
to the secret of his amours, and still less of his 
vices, while now it might be said of him that he 
affected to contemn public opinion. In this 
manner he indiscreetly blazoned to the world his 
liaison with a star of opera-bouffe, who, thanks 
to his liberality, drove every day in the Bois 
behind the handsomest turn-out in all France. 
That, however, so gossip said, was the most 
venial of his errors, and it began to attribute 
to him moral traits that bordered perilously 
on debauchery. Everywhere, among high and 
low, in clubs and drawing-rooms, allusion was 
constantly made to certain weekly suppers 


“FIN DE SI EC LEE 163 

where he and certain of his friends collected 
bevies of those unprejudiced ladies that Paris 
beholds hovering on the frontiers of the great 
world and the demi-world, like stars fallen from 
their orbits. It was said that some of them 
were even attended there by their husbands, in 
whose praise it would seem unnecessary to 
speak further. 

Other eccentricities of a similar nature were 
related concerning Pierrepont which it is useless 
to specify here, and which, while they did not 
actually touch his honor, brought his name, until 
this time so highly respected, somewhat into 
disrepute. 

Beatrice and Mme. d’Aymaret mingled too 
assiduously in Parisian gayeties not to have 
frequent opportunities of verifying with their 
own eyes, sometimes at the theatre, some- 
times in the Bois, the irregularities that the 
Marquis took so little pains to conceal. Besides, 
the Countess was kept posted on the subject by 
her husband, who was a pretty regular atten- 
dant at the famous suppers, and Beatrice, on her 
part, by Gustave Calvat, whose occupation of 
Bohemian, — an occupation that is amusing, 
though not highly respected, — took him much 
to the theatres and the cafes resorted to by 
newspaper-men; he greedily picked up there 
whatever scandals were floating about Paris. 


164 


AN ARTIST’ S HONOR. 


There had never been any great sympathy 
between him and Pierrepont, whom he had 
formerly met quite frequently at his brother-in- 
law’s, and it rather pleased him to expatiate 
on his pranks, especially in Beatrice’s presence, 
whose secret sympathy for a man of her own 
order he could not help noticing. What con- 
demned Pierrepont, however, more than all the 
rest in the eyes of the two young women was 
the fact that he had completely abandoned 
them both, as if confessing his unworthiness. 
He had ceased coming to Fabrice’s atelier, who, 
in his faithful friendship for his old comrade 
in the field and the hospital, showed himself 
deeply affected. 

Pierrepont, moreover, had forsaken almost all 
his old friends. He was still occasionally to be 
seen in society, however, for about the middle 
of the month of December we come across him 
in Marianne de La Treillade’s little salon. It 
is true that it is quite an exceptional circum- 
stance that has brought him there : he has come 
to make his compliments to Mile, de La Treil- 
lade on the occasion of her marriage. For this 
pretty maiden is about to take to herself a 
husband; she is to marry the Baron Jules 
Grebe, son of the banking-house of Grebe 
Bros. — owner in fact of a dozen millions from 
his father and heir presumptive to his uncle. 


“FIN DE S/ECLE” 165 

Just as Pierrepont presents himself at the 
door, Mme. de La Treillade, full of business and 
her arms full of precious band-boxes, is on the 
point of going out : she begs that he will excuse 
her if she leaves him alone with her daughter 
and Miss Eva, but she has an appointment at 
the great white-goods establishment on the 
boulevard. 

If, in the old days, Pierrepont did not appre- 
ciate Mile, de La Treillade at her full value as 
regards marriage, he none the less considered 
that she was very worthy of interest in other 
respects, and he continues to cultivate her 
acquaintance desultorily to be ready for any 
event, for future reference, as it were. 

“Mademoiselle,” says he, taking a seat, in a 
tone of somewhat equivocal gravity, “permit 
me to offer you my heartiest congratulations. 
You are about to marry one of my young, good 
friends, — a perfect gentleman, — and an excel- 
lent fellow, of whom you will make whatever 
you choose.” 

“About that I can’t say,” Marianne replies, 
looking at him steadily with her great mocking 
eyes; “I don’t know that he is as exemplary as 
you make him out to be; but at any rate he is 
giving you an example that you ought to fol- 
low: — he is making an end of it!” 

“Unfortunately, Mademoiselle, every one 


i66 


■ AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


does not meet with such a splendid opportunity 
to do so.” 

“And please observe,” says Marianne, “that 
he is younger than you by several years.” 

“Yes; but, Mademoiselle, I am very young 
for my age.” 

“So people say !” 

“They are quite right, — while he — Jules — is 
too sedate for his.” 

“I am delighted to hear it,” Marianne replies, 
“and you could not say anything in his praise 
that would give me greater pleasure. I myself 
am so calm, gentle and sensitive that a husband 
of a too lively disposition would be excessively 
displeasing to me.” 

“I have felt sure of that for a long time, 
Mademoiselle; so much so that I took the 
liberty of speaking to my young friend about 
it.” 

“How was that, my dear sir?” 

“Good Heavens, yes, I did. ‘My dear Jules,’ 
I said to him, — for we two are just so familiar 
together, — ‘I had the pleasure of meeting Mile, 
de La Treillade in the country, at my aunt’s. 
I had a chance to observe her closely, and I re- 
marked in her a gentleness, a sensibility, and’ — 
pardon me the expression, Mademoiselle, — ‘a 
candor — which merit the highest consideration 
at your hands.’ ” 


“ FIN DE SlkCLE." 


167 


“Monsieur de Pierrepont, I really do not 
know how to thank you for all your kindness 
toward me.” 

“It is only beginning, Mademoiselle, if you 
will but encourage it !” 

“Well! I will encourage it. Are you com- 
ing to see me when I am married?” 

“Every day, Mademoiselle, if you will allow 
me.” 

“Every day, perhaps that is a little too often. 
It would be very fatiguing for you, for we are 
going to live in the rue de Monceau, — and that 
is quite a distance from your horrid old rue de 
Varennes.” 

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but in addition 
to my house in the rue de Varennes, I keep 
my entresol in the boulevard Malesherbes.” 

“Why, Monsieur?” 

“So as to have the honor of continuing to be 
your neighbor.” 

“Truly? If you only knew what good times 
I have, Monsieur de Pierrepont!” 

“But I do not find my time hang heavy on 
my hands, either, I assure you, Mademoiselle !” 

This dialogue, which had seemed to afford 
much diversion to the governess, was inter- 
rupted by the entrance of two or three young 
ladies who came prancing into Marianne’s draw- 
ing-room in furs that were redolent of musk. 


i68 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


Th^ bright American face of Miss Kitty Nichol- 
son — she was one of the new-comers — assumed 
the hue of a Bengal rose when she per- 
ceived Pierrepont. Unfortunately the Mar- 
quis thought that his visit had been sufficiently 
protracted, and he retired, after shaking hands 
with Marianne, who said to him as he was leav- 
ing the room : 

“I shall hold you to your promise !” 

“I hope you will!” Pierrepont replied. 

After the usual preliminary embraces, Miles. 
Chalvin and d’Alvarez, who had come with 
Miss Nicholson, eagerly asked whether the date 
of the marriage was settled yet. 

“Yes,” said Marianne, “it is fixed for the fifth 
of January, — for my New Year gifts, or rather 
for my husband’s.” 

“Would you believe, my dear,” said Mile. 
Chalvin, “that I have never met your fiance ! I 
am dying to see him.” 

“Greedy one!” said Marianne. “Well, be 
happy! I am looking for him every moment.” 

“They say he is charming, my dear.” 

“He is indeed, my dear. I even think that 
charming is no word for it.” 

A moment after the door opened and there 
was presented to their view the Baron Jules 
Grebe, otherwise known as Fin de Siecle (End 
of the century — “Pinnacle of the age.”) It was 


“ FIN DE SlkCLE. 


169 


a surname, or rather a title, that he was fond of 
applying to himself, and by which his friends 
were accustomed to address him familiarly. 
He was an only son; had been utterly spoiled 
by his mother, who had never stopped going 
into ecstasies over him since the time when she 
saw him gape for the first time. She had 
smiled with tenderness at his first youthful 
debaucheries, and had finally contributed her 
full share toward making him the insupporta- 
ble little creature that he was. In order to 
preserve in the outer world the overwhelming 
supremacy with which his family had invested 
him, he had sought for an attitude, a pose which 
should render supererogatory any further merit, 
and he had found nothing more promising than 
a system of astonishing — or rather, to use his 
own expression, dumfoundering — his contempo- 
raries by an affectation of perverse cynicism. 
Some scraps of Darwin, picked up here and 
there and confusedly dyed in a solution of 
Schopenhauer had furnished him with the vague 
theory of moral nihilism which he had hung 
out as his sign. In all things, in literature, in 
art, in politics, but above all else in morals, he 
declared himself a sceptic of the deepest dye, 
blast, destitute of all faith, sick of old-fashioned 
conventionalities, corrupt and rotten to the very 
marrow of his bones, deliquescent even, and 


17 ° AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 

deliquescent to such a degree that he would 
soon be in a condition, as he proudly said, to 
be taken up with a spoon. Such were the pre- 
tensions of “Fin de Siecle,” who, having lost all 
belief in the past and having never had any be- 
lief in the future, naturally had no belief at all. 
Some of his club companions, dazzled by his 
assurance, his great wealth, and his theoretical 
immorality, looked upon him as a very strong 
man, and he himself shared that opinion. 

The young Baron’s extravagances had as- 
sumed such proportions in these later days, how- 
ever, that his uncle had threatened not only to 
disinherit him, but to provide him with a com- 
mittee to take care of his fortune as well if he 
did not mend his ways. It was for this reason 
that he was now about to marry Marianne de 
La Treillade, whom he proposed to “dum- 
founder’’ in quite an original manner. Person- 
ally Jules Grebe was a young man about 
twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, not very 
tall, but well made and out-Englishing the Eng- 
lish in style. What detracted a little from his 
appearance was a pair of great light-blue eyes 
that had a dull, lifeless expression. He walked 
with a firm step, stamping his feet upon the 
floor and straddling his legs as if he had a horse 
under him, even when on foot. 

It was with this conquering air that he 


“ FIN DE SI EC L EC 


171 


advanced into Marianne’s drawing-room ; he 
bowed with a slight, mocking inclination of the 
head, and placed in his fiancee’s pretty hands an 
enormous box of chocolates. He had a strange 
way of paying his court ; it consisted, that day, 
in eating, beneath the wondering glances of the 
young girls, a prodigious quantity of chocolate 
creams. Stimulated to daring deeds by the 
admiring laughter of the company, he sat 
there with his cold, impassive air and continued 
this pleasing diversion until he had finished the 
contents of the box. He was not without some 
anxiety as to what would be the results of such 
an exploit, but he had dumfoundered those 
young ladies and he was happy. 

The marriage took place three weeks later at 
the Church of Saint Augustin. The young 
couple had been of one mind as to dispensing 
with the usual vulgar wedding trip. The same 
evening, therefore, after the reception at Mme. 
j de La Treillade’s, they took possession of the 
hotel that Marianne had made her husband buy 
Tor her in the rue Monceau, and of which she 
.had personally superintended the furnishing 
with much taste, for in whatever else she might 
(be deficient, she had plenty of taste. 

The bed-chamber of the young wife opened 
from a boudoir hung with silk of a buttercup 
yellow. There she stopped, threw back the 


172 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


hood of her mantle, disclosing to view her pretty 
head, and, as if worn out with the day’s cere- 
monial, threw herself into an easy-chair. Her 
husband had placed himself with his back to 
the chimney and was warming his feet at the 
fire. All day long he had appeared more coldly 
contemptuous than ever, and at this very mo- 
ment, when he found himself alone with his 
charming wife at the threshold of the nuptial 
chamber, all that he had to give her was a 
mocking smile and a hard, sarcastic look. 

“My dear child,” he suddenly said, “are you 
an old fogy?” 

“Old fogy? Pardon me, I do not understand 
you. 

“I ask you, my dear,” the young Baron con- 
tinued, “if you are so childish as to believe in 
the antiquated routine of society, the obso- 
lete conventionalities of our fathers, — and mar- 
riage in particular?” 

“What are you trying to get at, my dear 
Jules?” 

“To have a good understanding together, my 
dear child, and for that it is necessary that we 
should know each other well. Speaking for 
myself, I am going to tell you plainly just what 
I am. People have told you, perhaps, that I 
am a terrible libertine, a rake, a regular Don 
Juan. Nothing of the sort, my dear; I am just 


“ FIN DE SIECLE. 


simply a man of the time, free from all preju- 
dice, unencumbered by tradition, — a man who 
knows how to yield to custom and his uncle, 
but who does not give up his independence by 
doing so.” 

“And then?” said Marianne, with a smiling 
indifference which had the effect of disconcert- 
ing the Baron a little. 

“And then — Mon Dieu ! — it is simply — I 
wanted to let you know that I shall always 
have the best of feelings toward you, but that 
you are not to expect from me the attentions, 
the regular habits, of a country husband.” 

“And that means?” inquired the bride, as 
smilingly and impassively as ever. 

“That means, — that to establish at once the 
principle of that independence that I assert, I 
request your permission to go to my club for a 
while to-night, — provided, of course, that it will 
not be too displeasing to you.” 

“Nothing could give me greater pleasure, my 
dear.” 

“I will add that I may be a little late in com- 
ing in, — perhaps not until morning.” 

“Don’t mention it!” she replied. 

“Well !” said the young man, taking his hat, 
“that is the way to do! You allow me to kiss 
your hand?” 


174 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


“You are too good !” said Marianne ; and she 
gave him her gloved hand. 

Jules Grebe left the room with his victorious 
stride and reached the street by a private stair- 
case that connected with their apartment. 

He lit a cigar and walked down the avenue 
de Messine, strolled some distance along the 
boulevard Haussmann in the direction of the 
rue d’Argenson, and there suddenly came to a 
stop. The truth was, his courage failed him ; 
whether it was that the enormity of his das- 
tardly action awoke his stupefied conscience, or 
Marianne’s calm irony had frightened him, or 
he was simply conscious of a feeling of love for 
his wife, he abandoned the idea of proceeding 
any further with his atrocious bit of bragga- 
docio and meditatively turned his steps toward 
the- mansion in the rue Monceau. After so 
short an absence, it would be easy to turn the 
matter off as a joke. 

When he got home, he entered the yellow 
boudoir where he had left his wife, with a smile 
of anticipation on his face; two or three lamps 
were burning still, but Marianne was not there. 
Giving a discreet knock, he passed into the bed- 
room, which was dimly lighted, but was sur- 
prised to find it untenanted. He then hurriedly 
ascended to the room of Miss Brown, the gover- 


“FIN DE SltCLE ” 175 

ness ; she was not at home. Not daring to ques- 
tion the domestics, he left the house again and 
went to make inquiries at the hotel in the boule- 
vard Malesherbes where Mme. de La Treillade 
lived ; Marianne had not been there. Then he 
returned to his own house again and paced his 
wife’s room from midnight until seven o'clock 
in the morning, when he had the satisfaction of 
seeing Marianne make her appearance, wrapped 
up in a sealskin mantle as if just coming in 
from the cold air. 

“Where have you been?’’ he said to her in a 
choking voice. 

“I have been celebrating my independence, 
just as you have been celebrating yours.’’ 

“That is a little too much !’’ exclaimed the 
young Baron. 

“Do you think so?’’ replied Marianne. 

“But I was only joking!’’ he rejoined. 

“So was I,” said the young woman. 

“For whom do you take me, I would like to 
know? ’’ said he, stammering with rage. 

“I take you for a poor fellow who looks as if 
he had just got out of his grave. Go and get 
some sleep, my friend ; it is the best thing you 
can do. Come, get out !” She showed him 
the door and he got out, — for he was dum- 
foundered. 

“My dear fellow,” he said to the Marquis de 


176 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR . 


Pierrepont in a confidential tone, a few days 
after this exploit, “you know whether I am 
‘Fin de Siecle’ or not! Well, I tell you that 
my wife is more so than I am !” 

“Jules, you astonish me !” Pierrepont replied. 


CHAPTER XII. 

IN A BOX AT THE THEATRE FRAN£AIS. 

O NE evening about two months after Mile. 

de La Treillade’s marriage to the Baron 
Jules Grebe, Fabrice and his wife had gone to 
the Theatre Frangais in company with M. and 
Mme. d’Aymaret. They occupied that large 
proscenium box that is so well known to many 
Parisians, with which the managers, for whose 
use it is reserved, sometimes compliment the 
friends of the house. The box is the more 
eagerly sought after that it connects with a 
small drawing-room that has been fitted up on 
the other side of the passage-way. 

It was half-past nine o’clock, and the curtain 
had just been rung up on the second act of 
Mile . de la Seigliere when the attention that 
Beatrice and Mme. d’Aymaret had been giving 
to the piece was brusquely interrupted by the 
noisy entrance of three or four persons into the 
box that faced theirs. They at once recognized 
the Baronne Grebe, nee de La Treillade, escorted 
by her faithful governess, her husband and the 
Marquis de Pierrepont. The party seemed to 
177 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


178 

be in a very jolly mood and the exuberance of 
their merriment even excited some reproving 
“chuts” in the house. 

All Paris had for some time past been talk- 
ing of Pierrepont’s intimacy with the young 
Baronne Grebe, and as for the Baron, quite 
daunted, fascinated and hypnotized by his wife, 
he had assumed his place among those husbands 
who are so numerous in the world and as to 
whom it is difficult to decide whether one ought 
more to pity their blindness or wonder at their 
good-nature. Even to those who were unac- 
quainted with its more unfavorable circum- 
stances, this open liaison of Pierrepont’s with 
a young bride of a day bore a deceitful resem- 
blance to the abduction of a minor and excited 
general hostility. It may be readily believed 
that it was a fresh sorrow for his friends of other 
days to behold this noble, refined, chivalrous 
character, that once had been their charm and 
delight, thus degrading himself and sinking from 
scandal to scandal, lower still, beneath their 
very eyes. 

For a long time prior to their painful experi- 
ence in meeting the Marquis and Marianne face 
to face in their box £t the Frangais, Beatrice 
and her friend had by tacit consent ceased 
mentioning his name in their conversation. 
They were immediately conscious that they 


AT THE THEATRE FRANQAIS. 179 

themselves were recognized, and thought that 
they could see by the expression on the faces 
of their vis-k-vis and the play of their lorgnettes 
that they were furnishing them with food for 
their remarks. Marianne was talking ani- 
matedly and seemed to be urgent in directing 
Pierrepont’s attention toward Fabrice’s box. 
At the end of the act Fabrice, who had some 
pressing work to attend to at home, retired, 
followed by d’Aymaret, who said that he would 
go to his club and have a game of bezique. 
His wife would take Beatrice home in her 
carriage. At the same moment, Pierrepont, 
seemingly yielding rather unwillingly to some 
request from Marianne, rose and left his box. 
Beatrice, who had not ceased to watch him 
from behind her fan, felt her heart give a great 
bound within her, and quickly carried her hand 
to her bosom. 

“What is the matter?” said Mme. d’Aymaret. 

“I feel sure that he is coming here !” 

“You are crazy, — he would not come here!” 

“You will see !” 

Three or four minutes later there was a low 
knock at the door of the box. Mme. d’Aymaret 
went and opened it and Pierrepont entered. 
He bowed with a rather forced politeness, and 
casting his eyes about as if surprised to see the 
two women alone : 


180 AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 

“Fabrice has gone home, then?” he inquired. 

“Yes,” replied Mme. d’Aymaret, “he went a 
moment ago.” 

“Ah ! sorry, — very sorry !” said Pierrepont, 
displaying a strange awkwardness in taking the 
seat that was offered him. Twice while seating 
himself he dropped the lorgnette that he held 
in his hand, and then laughed inordinately at 
his own clumsiness as he stooped to pick it up. 
“I was charged with an order for him,” he went 
on, “for that good fellow Fabrice, — but certainly 
Mme. Fabrice will not refuse to be my envoy — 
I don’t believe she will — and of course — she 
will get anything — that she asks for — as she 
deserves to do.” 

The strangeness of this speech, his slow, thick 
utterance, the kind of sneer that accompanied 
his difficult articulation, could not escape the 
young women’s notice, and they at once sorrow- 
fully thought of the intemperate habits that 
were attributed to him by common report. 

“Here is what it is,” he continued, while they 
listened to him as if stupefied. “Every one is 
talking of the portrait of Miss Nicholson that 
Fabrice has just completed — a perfect master- 
piece, they all say. The Baronne Grebe has 
gone crazy on the subject, — she wants to have 
her portrait too, — from the hand of the great 
master — but it seems that he has— more orders 


AT THE THE A TEE FRA NQ A IS. 181 

than he can fill — that he is refusing sitters — 
that people have to await their turn. I will 
make bold — make bold to ask for one — for the 
wife of my young friend — through the interven- 
tion, — as I was saying, — of Mme. Fabrice.” 

Neither the object of this request nor the 
tone in which it was proffered were such as to 
please Beatrice. 

“My husband/’ she replied with cool disdain, 
“does not consult me as to whom his sitters 
shall be.’’ 

“Ah! Madame Fabrice, then, — if I under- 
stand correctly, — refuses us her assistance — on 
this occasion?” 

“Yes, Monsieur, I do refuse it,” said Beatrice, 
arising with dignity. “Elise,” she added, “let 
me take your coupe ; I will send it back in 
twenty minutes.” She passed in front of Pierre- 
pont, opened the door of the box and entered 
the small adjacent salon, where she hastily put 
on her mantle and furs, Mme. d’Aymaret, who 
had hurried after her, assisting. They shook 
hands and Beatrice departed. 

Pierrepont, standing in the obscurity of the 
baignoire , motionless, speechless, had witnessed 
this brief scene. He now came and joined 
Mme. d’Aymaret in the little salon. She had 
taken a seat upon a divan, breathing heavily, as 
if suffering from an oppression. He came and 


182 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


stood in front of her; his hands trembled a lit- 
tle, his cheeks and forehead had assumed a 
purplish tint, for rage had put the finishing 
touch to the work of his intoxication, — and he 
almost stammered as he endeavored to apolo- 
gize for his conduct: 

“To you — I may say — with due respect — it 
was not my intention .... Not in the habit, 
you know — insulting women. I don’t think 
I deserved — way she answered me. But it is a 
matter for men to settle now. As for you — I 
want to invoke old memories— which, I hope — ” 

All at once he ceased speaking. Mme. 
d’Aymaret had hidden her face in her hands, 
and he saw the tears trickling between her 
fingers over her rings. 

There was silence in the room for a minute 
or two ; then the Marquis de Pierrepont, who 
had suddenly turned as white as a sheet, said 
to her in a low but steady voice : 

“Why are you weeping?” 

Her only answer was a violent outburst of 
sobs. 

“Oh ! I know,” he said with a mournful shake 
of the head, “you are weeping for me ! You are 
weeping for the man whom you once honored 
with your esteem — your friendship — and whom 
you now behold sunk to the lowest depth of 
degradation ; — but if I inspire you with pity — 


AT THE THEATRE FRA NQ A IS. 183 

or with horror, rather, since I hold myself in 
horror — whose is the fault — whose? if not that 
wretched woman’s who has just gone out from 
here?” 

“Monsieur de Pierrepont !” 

“I am telling you nothing that you do not 
already know, I suppose ; the great change in 
my life may be a riddle to the world, but cer- 
tainly not to you. It is impossible that you, 
at Least, should be unacquainted with its real 
cause,— and you will permit me say, its excuse.” 

“At times, no doubt,” murmured the young 
woman, “I have thought of that. But how 
could I believe that it was the case? How 
could I think that a disappointment, however 
bitter it might be, could induce a man to lower 
himself — ” She hesitated to find a word. 

“To such depths!” said Pierrepont, complet- 
ing her sentence. “But, my God! Madame, 
you were my confidant, — in that fearful moment 
of my life! Think, I beseech you, what that 
disappointment that you speak of must have 
been to me! At the age when a man’s destiny 
is hanging in the balance, it is often a woman 
who decides it, — who inclines it either toward 
good or evil. In my case it so chanced that 
that woman was your friend. As she then 
appeared to my eyes, — as to the eyes of all the 
world, — with her undisputed beauty and her 


184 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


assumed virtues, she was to me a charming 
symbolization of the happiness that I was long- 
ing for at an honorable fireside in a respected 
home. Little by little I had come to put all my 
future, all my life, into that dream of which she 
was the inspiration. You know all the circum- 
stances that kept me apart from her, — you know 
all the resistance, the objections, the obstacles 
that I had to conquer or to brave. You know 
what my devotion was; that I was ready to 
make every sacrifice, that I was willing to 
accept everything, — privation, want, toil, a life 
of subjection, — everything — provided only I 
might have her for my wife. In a word, you 
knowhow I loved her, — with what unreasoning 
tenderness, — it was almost a holy tenderness, I 
am not afraid to say, — and now that she has 
basely deceived such a love, you are surprised 
that I am become a desperate man and that I 
call her a miserable woman !” 

“Monsieur de Pierrepont, I pity you from the 
bottom of my heart ; but is it worthy of you, 
does it accord with your honor, with your good 
sense, to call her a miserable woman simply 
because she declined to marry you?” 

“I do not call her a miserable woman because 
she declined to marry me, — but because for 
months and years she encouraged my passion, 
because she allowed me to believe that she 


AT THE THEATRE FRANQAIS. 185 

returned it ; because she lied to me ! — Just look 
at it, Madame! I am not a child. Could I be 
deceived in her manner, her looks, her tones, 
even her very silence? Could I not read in all 
those things the expression of her love? Come ! 
you yourself were convinced that this was so ! 
and yet it was all nothing but falsehood, calcu- 
lation, and cold coquetry. The reason of it was 
that notwithstanding the slenderness of my 
fortune, I was a good match for her, who had 
nothing at all ; but the very day that a wealthier 
suitor came and offered himself, she hastened 
to throw herself into his arms, careless whether 
or not she broke my heart !” 

“If you knew, Monsieur, if you could only 
know how unjust you are!” 

“She threw herself into his arms !” he con- 
tinued, with rising exaltation ; “and how can 
you fail to understand all that I felt at that 
moment, — the disenchantment, humiliation, bit- 
ter grief, mad jealousy, that raged within my 
heart? I thought of killing myself, — but the 
life that I am leading is as much a suicide as 
the other — with my degradation added, it is 
true !” 

“Monsieur de Pierrepont, be calm — I beseech 
you, calm yourself !” 

“She has driven me to madness, — she has 
made me bad in every way, and she shall see 


1 86 


AN ART/ST'S HONOR. 


it! Standing there, just this minute, she in- 
solently refused to do me a trifling favor — and 
that only to insult that young woman, — who 
is not good, it is very possible,: — but who is a 
hundred times better than she. Well, she shall 
make her a fitting apology, or I will kill her 
husband. — Besides, I hate him, that husband of 
hers; an honest man, I do not dispute that, — 
but I hate him, and ,pardieu ! he shall paint the 
Baronne Grebe’s portrait or I will kill him !” 

“Monsieur de Pierrepont,” cried the young 
woman, seizing him by the arm, “I swear to 
you by all that is dearest and most sacred to 
me in the world, — do you understand me? — 
that Beatrice is innocent of that which you 
accuse her of !” 

“She told you so!” said Pierrepont, with a 
bitter smile. 

“Oh ! my God !” Mme d’Aymaret rejoined, 
“yes, she told me so, — she told me everything, — 
she told me that from her earliest childhood 
she has never loved any one but you, that the 
thought of being your wife was heaven itself 
to her,— that she adored you, in a word, — and 
that your aunt compelled her to decline your 
hand under penalty of seeing you disinherited, 
and that she made the sacrifice of herself and 
suffered martyrdom. There you have the 
whole truth ! And now, Monsieur, you will be 


AT THE THE A TEE FRANCA IS. 187 

the basest of men if you ever give me cause to 
repent of the culpable indiscretion that I have 
just committed in confiding all this to you ; but 
still it was necessary, to prevent the evil — the 
crime, that you were meditating.” 

He looked her earnestly in the face, and 
stupefaction, hesitation, even incredulity, were 
depicted on his countenance, but the revelation 
that had burst from the lips and the heart of 
the young woman had the stamp of truth that 
carried conviction with it. He was quick to 
understand it, and gently taking her hand and 
seating himseT before her with the air of one 
overwhelmed with grief : 

“Can it be possible?” he said. “Yes— I 
know that you are always truthful. Ah ! take 
my blessing for the good that you do me! 
Ah! how I thank you! You cannot recall my 
lost happiness, alas ! but you restore to me my 
courage and my honor!” 

“I am a witness to your words,” she said, 
giving him a warm clasp of the hand. 

Then she went on to give him a more explicit 
account of the constraint that Beatrice had been 
subjected to at the hands of Mme. de Montau- 
ron, there really being no further reason why 
she should refuse him those details for which 
he seemed so eager. 

The sound of applause recalling the actors to 


i88 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


the stage interrupted their conversation and 
informed them that the act was finished. 

“My dear sir,” said Mme. d’Aymaret as she 
arose, “we both now have need of rest, and still 
more, of time for reflection, — and then they are 
commencing to be uneasy over there in the box 
facing us.” 

Pierrepont raised his hand with a gesture of 
supreme indifference. 

“Come and see me to-morrow at two o’clock,” 
she said. “There is a very serious question to 
be discussed, — the attitude that is to be ob- 
served toward Beatrice.” 

“Until to-morrow then, Madame, — and once 
again, receive my blessing!” 

While she was returning to her box, he made 
his exit by the passage-way. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

PASSION. 

T HE wise little woman passed an extremely 
anxious night in revolving in her mind all 
the consequences, possible or probable, that 
might ensue from the important revelation that 
she had felt it her duty to make to Pierrepont. 
The necessity that had drawn this revelation 
from her was of so imperious a nature that her 
conscience could find nothing to reproach her 
with. There could be no doubt that it was her 
duty, even at this cost, to remove any possi- 
bility of a personal conflict between Pierrepont 
and Fabrice that might result in bloodshed. 
None the less, however, she bitterly deplored 
that she had been reduced to this necessity. 
She could not conceal from herself the fact that 
the force of circumstances would henceforth 
place Beatrice in an extremely delicate position 
toward the man whom she loved and who was 
now in possession of her secret. It would be 
a useless precaution to leave her friend in 
ignorance that Pierrepont was the master of 
this secret, for she could not hope that the 
189 


190 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


Marquis would impose upon himself the same 
reserve : it was impossible to suppose that he 
would now content himself to rest supinely be- 
neath the burthen of Beatrice’s contempt, with- 
out attempting to excuse himself by a word of 
justification, of penitence, were it only for his 
offensive language and conduct of the night be- 
fore. Now that an explanation had become 
inevitable, Mme. d’Aymaret thought that it 
would come more appropriately and with less 
danger from her lips than from Pierrepont’s, 
and she resolved to take it upon herself to make 
it. As to the new relations that would arise 
between Beatrice and the Marquis, she could 
see no better way of depriving them of danger 
than by appealing to the sentiments of honor 
that she knew to exist in each of them. Frank 
and straightforward herself, she placed a gener- 
ous, perhaps an excessive confidence in frank 
and straightforward methods, and so, under 
the circumstances as they presented themselves 
to her, it seemed impossible to select a better 
course. 

This was the state of mind in which she re- 
ceived the Marquis de Pierrepont when he 
came to her on the following day at the hour 
which she had appointed for him. He was 
very grave, and his handsome features, much 
changed from what they had been a short time 


PASS/ON. 


191 

before, no longer bore any traces of that repul- 
sive smile that they had worn for some time, 
like a sort of nervous affection. 

“In the first place, dear Madame, tell me that 
I was not dreaming when you entrusted me 
with that confidence last night.” 

“You were not dreaming: and now, if the 
thing is possible, let us talk a little reasonably 
together. I have delivered you from a chimera 
that was devouring your heart. I admit that I 
did it rather against my will, but notwith- 
standing that, I think that you ought to be a 
little grateful to me for it.” 

“I am infinitely grateful.” 

“We shall see. Let us speak of things as 
they are. You are now in possession of Bea- 
trice’s secret; you know that she has always 
loved you, and that in place of betraying you 
and sacrificing you, as you thought, it was her 
own self that she sacrificed. To-day she has 
other duties, other affections, doubtless, and I 
am certain that you would never succeed in 
diverting her from them, but if you were to 
abuse my compulsory indiscretion, you might at 
least disturb her peace of mind ; and as far as I 
am concerned, Monsieur, in return for the ser- 
vice that I have done you, you would plunge 
me into an unfathomable depth of sorrow.” 

“Tell me what you wish that I should do.” 


192 AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 

“Monsieur de Pierrepont, you are forever 
separated from the woman whom it was your 
dream to marry, and who loved you, even as 
you loved her; it is a great misfortune and a 
great sorrow, — but it is done and is beyond re- 
call. Your only thought now should be to save 
from the wreck whatever can be saved without 
sacrifice of self-respect. I do not ask you to 
condemn yourself to exile from Paris and never 
see Beatrice again, —I fear that that would be 
too heavy a demand on your strength, — but I 
do ask you to meet her frankly and openly, as 
a woman from whom you have now nothing to 
expect excepting her friendship and esteem. 
That will call for a great display of courage, 
perhaps, but did you not tell me that I had re- 
stored to you your courage — and your honor?” 

“I hope to be able to give you proof of it, 
Madame.” 

“I thank you,” said the young woman with 
emotion, “but to aid you in the matter, you 
will allow me to take some precautions that are 
suggested to me by my former experience. 
Among all the circumstances which may hap- 
pen you to try your courage, there is one at 
least that I can foresee and save you from. I 
beg you to have no formal explanation with 
Beatrice; it would be too agitating a subject 
both for you and her. I will make it my busi- 


PASSION. 


193 


ness this very day to see that she is informed 
of everything, and all that you will have to do 
will be to drop in on the Fabrices as of old, 
just as if nothing had happened. I can promise 
you a cordial reception. No allusion will be 
made to the past or to the present, and you 
will promise me, wont you? to make none on 
your part, not to give way to your tender- 
ness — to be simply an old friend, — just as you 
are to me — and nothing more?” 

“I promise; and it is no great merit in me, I 
assure you ; — what you offer me will seem very 
sweet after all that I have suffered.” 

“That is right! Now I must say good-by 
to you — I am going to see her. I made an 
appointment this morning.” 

“But, Madame, since you do not allow me to 
excuse myself, to say anything in justification, 
she must be made to understand — ” 

“She shall know everything. If I do not write 
you, go and see her whenever you please, but 
it will be better to go on a Monday — that is her 
day — you will be less noticed in the throng; it 
will be less embarrassing. But I must be off. 
Good-by !” And they parted. 

Beatrice, still suffering under the painful im- 
pression of the scene of the preceding night, 
had not felt her anxiety relieved upon the re- 
ceipt, during the course of the morning, of the 


i 9 4 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


brief note that Mme. d’Aymaret sent to pre- 
pare her for intelligence of importance. As 
soon as she beheld her at the door, she ran to 
meet her, her face aflame. 

“What is it?” she said. 

“In the first place, I bring you Pierrepont’s 
excuses, and then, the assurance that we shall 
never again have to blush for our friendship 
for him.” 

“Can it be possible?” exclaimed Beatrice, 
joining her hands with an eager movement of 
joyful surprise. 

“Yes ; but, dame ! I had to pay a pretty high 
price for the good news. Sit down there till I 
tell you my story.” Then she went on to give 
her an account of the stormy conversation that 
she had had with the Marquis the evening be- 
fore in the little salon of the Theatre Frangais, 
giving, of course, all the details of the denoue- 
ment. She had betrayed Beatrice’s secret ! 
But she had betrayed it to defend her against 
unjust and cruel imputations, to restore a 
wretchedly deceived and desperate man to his 
senses, and finally and most of all, to avert the 
imminent danger of a most deplorable duel. 
Beatrice, who had listened with eager interest, 
could only reply by covering her hand with 
kisses. 

When the wise little woman felt that her par- 


PASSION. 


195 


don was secure, she proceeded to advice and 
entreaties. She used the same language to her 
friend, only varied a little in form, that she had 
used an hour previously to the Marquis de 
Pierrepont. She made the explanations that 
she had promised him she would. She felt cer- 
tain that Beatrice would understand, as Pierre- 
pont had understood, that in making a sincere 
renunciation of what was now beyond their 
reach, in accepting the inevitable, they would 
find some happiness in store for them yet, — a 
melancholy happiness it would be, no doubt, 
but pure and deep, — in those sentiments which 
were not forbidden them. Outside these limits 
there remained for Beatrice nothing but shame, 
degradation and despair, and for Mme. d’Ayma- 
ret herself only the never-ending remorse for 
her imprudence, — involuntary as it had been. 

Beatrice thanked her effusively, confessing 
that at heart she was glad that Pierrepont now 
knew all the truth. She, also, would rejoice to 
see him become a respectable man once more. 
As to the other matters, she begged Mme. 
d’Aymaret to have confidence in her. She 
said, with the most unreserved good-faith and 
not without a shade of haughtiness: “There 
are thoughts that never enter my head. I have 
suffered greatly, and I have much suffering be- 
fore me still, but even if I were devoid of princi- 


196 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


pie, I have too much pride, too much self- 
respect to seek consolation for my lost love in 
a mere vulgar, every-day intrigue.” 

After this very satisfactory interview, Mme. 
d’Aymaret went home, stretched herself upon 
her lounge and slept like a little child. 

The next day but one was a Monday, the 
painter’s wife’s day for receiving. Pierrepont 
was unable to let pass this occasion of perform- 
ing a duty that he looked forward to with both 
pleasure and apprehension. He found quite a 
numerous company assembled in Beatrice’s 
drawing-room, which made their first interview 
easier for both of them. A close clasp of the 
hand, a searching look rapidly exchanged, these 
constituted the only explanation between them. 

When Pierrepont left her salon, he went to 
Fabrice’s studio, who could not conceal an ex- 
pression of surprise and embarrassment upon 
perceiving him. 

“My dear master,” the Marquis simply said 
to him, “here I am again — like the prodigal 
son. To tell it in two words, I have had 
great griefs — I vainly sought to find oblivion 
in a wretched life of dissipation, — now I come 
to seek it among my old friends, and I confess 
that I should have acted more sensibly had I 
done that at the beginning.” 

“I am extremely happy to see you again, my 


PASS/O N. 


T 97 


dear friend,” said Fabrice, giving him a hearty 
shake of the hand. “I have felt the loss of 
your presence very deeply, — and of your coun- 
sel also, — and to make up at once for lost time, 
I must show you a little canvas that is causing 
me a great deal of worry.” He raised a veil of 
green baize that hung from an easel. “That 
you may not be mistaken,” he continued, “I 
will tell you that it is a portrait of Miss Nichol- 
son. You see I am depicting her as Hebe — in 
the old-fashioned allegorical style, — it is only 
an attempt. She is preparing to fill the cups 
of the gods — who are left to your imagination. 
What do you think of it? I think it is atro- 
cious.” 

“It is perfectly exquisite,” said Pierrepont, 
after scrutinizing it a moment. 

“Well, well ! so much the better. But it will 
take about ten sittings yet to finish it. I have 
something else on hand — but it is a huge under- 
taking, that is. Just imagine that the first time 
old man Nicholson came to see me, in looking 
through one of my portfolios he came across 
the sketches for four immense panels, more or 
less faithful representations of the fou • sea- 
sons ; well, he fell in love with them and asked 
me to paint them for his dining-room in Chi- 
cago. You see there is nothing that they think 
too good for them, out there in Chicago. Four 


198 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


paintings three metres by two — excuse me ! 
‘My dear sir/ I said to him, ‘I should have to 
devote a year of my life, at the very least, 
exclusively to that work, — and candidly, my 
means will not allow me to do it.’ That only 
served to stimulate the man, and he offered 
me — bah ! a fortune ! But faith ! I have a 
wife and daughter, — it was an opportunity to 
make their future secure in any event, — and I 
accepted !” 

“You did quite right, and father Nicholson 
has more sense than I gave him credit for. 
Have you commenced those panels of yours?” 

“The rough sketch is completed, — but I can- 
not work here ; my atelier is too small. I have 
had to borrow my neighbor’s until I can get 
back to my shed at Bellevue, where we shall 
get along very well, I and my panels. We 
have taken the house that we had last year 
again, and my wife, in view of this exceptional 
work, is willing to make the sacrifice of moving 
to the country very early this year. I hope, 
my dear Marquis, that you will not take advan- 
tage of our going away to forsake us again?” 

“You have more reason to fear,” said Pierre- 
pont with a laugh, “that you will see me rising 
on your horizon too frequently.” 

In this manner and from that moment the 
former relations of the two friends were re- 


PASSION. 


199 


established upon their old footing. Fabrice 
made no attempt to conceal from his wife the 
pleasure that this altered state of affairs afforded 
him. As they were conversing upon the sub- 
ject at dinner that evening, he plied her with 
rather embarrassing questions as to what she 
knew or guessed of the causes that had induced 
Pierrepont’s sudden and happy conversion. “I 
imagine,” he said, “that your friend Mme. d’Ay- 
maret had something to do with it.” 

“I imagine so too,” said Beatrice. 

“What astonished me,” Fabrice continued, 
“is that he did not look a bit like a penitent 
when we saw him at the theatre day before 
yesterday evening.” 

“Just so!” Beatrice replied. “He came into 
Elise’s box after we had gone, and she gave him 
a good talking to.” 

“What a charming creature she is!” said 
Fabrice. “But he excuses himself by saying 
that he has had great sorrows — what sorrows? 
Have you any idea?” 

She replied by shaking her head negatively 
with a rather vague smile of unconcern. 

A few days after these incidents all the 
tongues of Paris were wagging over a reported 
rupture between the Marquis de Pierrepont and 
the Baronne Grebe. The rumor was true. 
The Marquis having firmly refused to interfere 


200 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


to persuade Fabrice to paint the young Ba- 
ronne’s portrait, she had had a violent scene 
with him and dismissed him. It is true that 
she had sent him a note early next morning to 
bring him back to her, but he was inexorable, 
even though Baron Jules, now completely sub- 
jugated to his better half, took the trouble to 
bring the note in person. 

In the early days succeeding Pierrepont’s 
reconciliation with Beatrice, Mme d’Aymaret 
was pleased to see their relations assuming the 
character that she had desired for them in her 
unworldly wisdom. In the attitude that they 
held toward each other, in their eyes, their lan- 
guage, she could discern a frankness, a peaceful- 
ness, and even a sort of gayety that seemed to 
her of most excellent augury. They had quite’ 
the air of people who find their existing circum- 
stances sufficient for their happiness and ask 
for nothing further. In reality, they were still 
entirely dominated by their first impression, 
which was to both of them one of inexpressible 
relief ; Beatrice was no longer distressed by the 
insupportable torture of knowing herself mis- 
judged and condemned by the man whose 
opinion she valued more than anything in the 
world. Pierrepont, for his part, who had been 
so deeply wounded in his sensibility, and also, 
it must be said, in his pride, by Beatrice’s appar- 


PASSION. 


201 


ent coldness, no longer was conscious of his 
wounds now that he knew that he was loved. 
It was a moment of cordiality and relaxed feel- 
ing, which produced, even in the two who were 
most closely concerned, an illusion of a suffic- 
ing and lasting happiness. 

Pierrepont had resumed his old habits of 
familiar intercourse with Fabrice in his studio, 
and there he frequently met Beatrice, especially 
at such times as Miss Nicholson was sitting, 
with whom she had contracted quite an inti- 
mate friendship. Mme. d’Aymaret, who was 
also on friendly terms with the young Ameri- 
can, sometimes accompanied her to Fabrice’s, 
where she consented to act as chaperon when 
her father was kept away by business. As Miss 
Nicholson was on the eve of departing for 
America, after a two years’ stay in France, she 
was at this time much engrossed by her final 
purchases and her farewell calls and could not 
sit every day, so that some three or four weeks 
elapsed before the picture received the finish- 
ing touches and the master’s signature. She 
showed no particular anxiety, however, to have 
it finished, and all through the long and fatigu- 
ing seances manifested a patience that was 
truly angelic, especially when the Marquis de 
Pierrepont happened to be there. Mme. d’Ay- 
maret did not fail to notice this circumstance, 


262 


AN ARTIST'S NONOR. 


neither did it escape her attention that the 
young lady’s rosy and charming face became 
rosier and more charming still whenever the 
Marquis de Pierrepont condescended to speak 
to her. Unfortunately nothing seemed to indi- 
cate that poor Kitty’s trouble was contagious 
to the Marquis. 

At the same time Mme. d’Aymaret made 
certain other observations that gave her food 
for reflection and seemed to call for further 
efforts of diplomacy on her part. The young 
woman having come to her to say good-by pre- 
vious to her departure for Havre and New 
York, she seized this occasion to lay the foun- 
dation stone of a plan that she had begun to 
construct within her mind. She saw that Miss 
Nicholson was quite ready to make her her con- 
fessor, and she gave way the more readily that 
it had been her intention to apply for the posi- 
tion. The young woman, then, with that 
blended air of modesty and fearlessness that 
might be called the charm of American women, 
confessed that she had a tender feeling for the 
Marquis de Pierrepont, but she felt that it was 
not returned and was going away in despair. 
Mme. d’Aymaret raised her courage a little by 
offering to keep an eye to her interests ; she 
had been thinking for a long time of procuring 
the Marquis a wife; he reposed some confi- 


PASSION. 


205 

dence in her. She would tell him all the nice 
things that she had in her mind concerning her 
little friend, and further promised that nothing 
should be said to compromise her delicacy. 

“But let us understand each other, my dar- 
ling,” she added ; “if I send him out to Chicago 
to you one of these days, I may promise him a 
welcome from your family, mayn’t I?” 

Miss Kitty replied by an expressive gesture, 
accompanied by a brief exclamation in her own 
language, equivalent in ours to the word “ Par- 
bleu !” Then she threw her arms around Mme. 
d’Aymaret’s neck, pressed her several times to 
her young heart, and marched out with her lit- 
tle military step, her face as radiant as if it was 
already adorned with the elegant jeweled dia- 
dem of a marquise. 

The fact was that, thanks to the facilities 
afforded by the atelier, the relations between 
Pierrepont and the wife of the painter had be- 
gun to assume more and more an aspect of inti- 
macy that had not entered into Mme. d’Ayma- 
ret’s calculations and now commenced to cause 
her serious uneasiness., Their reciprocal bear- 
ing presented certain symptoms as to which a 
woman’s instinct is never at fault. Their fear- 
less attitude of earlier days had been succeeded 
by appearances of timid and awkward con- 
straint, interspersed with moments of dreamy 


204 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


revery. It was evident that they sought each 
other’s society and at the same time they 
seemed embarrassed when they met. There 
was a vibrating emotion underlaying the most 
trivial words that passed between them. She 
knew that their tete-a-tetes were infrequent and 
that they appeared to shun them ; hence she 
justly concluded that they were guarding them- 
selves against the temptation of opening their 
hearts to each other, recalling memories of the 
past and displaying their mutual affection. She 
was far from believing them guilty, and in this 
she did them no more than justice, but would not 
so constant and so familiar an intercourse prove 
too strong a trial for their good resolutions, 
however sincere they might have been in mak- 
ing them? Did it not place them in exactly 
the same position toward each other that they 
had formerly occupied at Mme. de Montau- 
ron’s? And might it not gradually arouse their 
mutual feelings in all their strength, at the 
same time envenoming Beatrice’s antipathy for 
her husband ? 

The Vicomtesse had hoped that the removal 
of Fabrice and his family to the country might 
have the effect of relaxing the ties of this 
dangerous intimacy by restricting Pierrepont’s 
assiduities, who, as a general thing, did not care 
to absent himself frequently from the boule- 


PASS/O AT. 


205 

vard, but she was soon cured of this illusion. 
Alleging his deep interest in the gigantic work 
which the painter had taken on his shoulders, 
he went several times every week to Bellevue, 
where he was quite often made to stay din- 
ner. When Mme. d’Aymaret chanced to meet 
him there, she observed that he always main- 
tained the same reserved air toward Beatrice, 
but she saw them turn pale when their hands 
met ; she felt the breath of the approaching 
storm ; she said to herself that if the present 
situation were to be protracted, any surprise, 
any chance might some day suffice to set free 
the floods of stormy passion that had been so 
long dammed up, and restrained within those 
two hearts. 

Deeply alarmed in her conscience, in her 
integrity and her friendship for them both, she 
saw that the only way of arresting Pierrepont 
and Beatrice in their involuntary descent to- 
ward ruin lay in some radical, heroic measure. 
Then it was that the idea came to her of marry- 
ing Pierre to Miss Nicholson, a scheme which 
would have the immediate advantage of keep- 
ing him out of France for some time. 

It now remained to bring the chief parties in 
interest to agree to this project. Miss Nichol- 
son was already a convert; but Mme. d’Ayma- 
ret was likely to encounter in the Marquis, and 


20 6 AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 

also in Beatrice, an opposition that would be the 
more insurmountable from the fact that they 
had specious reasons with which to support it ; 
they had nothing to reproach themselves with, 
they had kept themselves strictly within the 
bounds of the honest friendship that Mme. 
d’Aymaret had herself prescribed for them. 
Why should they be annoyed? Why should 
the innocent consolation of their past sorrows 
be taken from them? Would they not accuse 
their friend of interfering with them unneces- 
sarily and tyrannically, and would she not incur 
the risk of losing their priceless friendship 
without any compensating advantage? 

An occurrence of a private nature brought 
the young woman’s irresolution to a close. Her 
husband, the Vicomte d’Aymaret, worn out by 
the excesses of every kind that had gone to 
make up his life, had fallen into an alarming 
condition of anaemia. The doctors directed 
him to make a long visit to Glion, on the lake 
of Geneva, and his wife naturally decided to go 
with him. She was to start in a few days, so 
that the supreme effort that she was contem- 
plating must be put in force without delay. 

She took the train to Bellevue one morning. 
When she presented herself at the painter’s, she 
was told that Beatrice was in the garden, pro- 
bably in her husband’s studio. This studio, 


PASSION. 


207 


the reader will remember, was situated half-way 
down the hill, at some distance from the dwell- 
ing. She only found Fabrice there, working 
away at his panels, which were beginning to 
show up in all their grandeur. In reply to some 
compliments that she paid him : 

“That is perfect!” he merrily exclaimed. 
“You tell me exactly what Pierrepont told me 
just now, and when your taste coincides with 
his, I am satisfied.” 

“Pierrepont is here?” 

“Yes. Beatrice is walking with him in the 
park. I think that they just passed down the 
hedged alley. You know the way?” 

“Quite well.” 

She took a winding path that conducted her 
to the bottom of the garden. It was the end 
of April, and as the foliage was not very thick 
as yet, she could see Pierrepont and Beatrice 
from quite a distance, walking slowly, side by 
side, along the alley: she involuntarily over- 
heard some of their words ; there was nothing 
mysterious or confidential in them, and yet, 
when they saw her, they both manifested a sort 
of confusion. 

After a few unimportant words had passed 
between them : 

“Monsieur de Pierrepont,” said Mme. 
d’Aymaret, “may I ask you to leave me alone 


208 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


with Beatrice for a moment? But first, tell me, 
what train are you going to take back to Paris?” 

“Why — the three-twenty train, I think.” 

“Excellent! — That is my train. We will 
return together; that is, if you are willing?” 

“I should think so !” 

“I will meet you in the studio in a few 
minutes.” 

As soon as Pierrepont was out of sight, she 
bravely attacked the subject which had been 
the cause of bringing her to Beatrice. She was 
careful in her language to avoid the shadow of 
a reproach ; she taxed herself with having been 
short-sighted, careless, a bad adviser; before 
going away, to be absent several months, per- 
haps, she wished to make amends for her impru- 
dence ; she knew that there was nothing wrong 
between her and the Marquis, but to speak 
plainly, there was something equivocal, some- 
thing that did not look quite right, in their rela- 
tions; they were wanting in sincerity; it was 
impossible to believe that they could continue 
as they then were without inflicting injury either 
on Beatrice’s peace of mind or her good name, 
or seriously affecting the honor of her husband. 
It was necessary, therefore, that they should be 
modified, and Pierrepont’s marriage was the 
only means of effecting a change that would be 
of any efficacy. 


PASSION . 


209 


Beatrice, though evidently surprised by this 
unexpected suggestion, received it without 
revolt and did not even raise any objection to 
it. Perhaps, in the depths of her troubled soul, 
she was beginning to distrust herself and to 
wish, almost, that she might be saved at any 
cost from a struggle that she felt was every day 
becoming more painful and more doubtful. She 
authorized Mme. d’Aymaret to say to the Mar- 
quis that she approved this marriage ; she only 
requested that he would not speak of it to her, 
and if he was to go away, that he would not 
inform her of the day set for his departure. 

“I loved you before,” Mme. d’Aymaret simply 
said to her as she kissed her on taking leave ; 
“now, I respect you !” 

She left her in the alley and returned to 
Pierrepont in the studio. 

“We have still,” she said, “a good half-hour 
before the train comes along. Suppose we go 
and wait for it at the Meudon station, walking 
along very slowly — tete-a-tete.” 

“My fondest dream !” Pierrepont gayly said, 
raising his eyes toward Heaven. 

They said good-by to Fabrice, and the next 
moment they were sauntering along the descend- 
ing road that leads from Bellevue to Meudon 
and Mme. d’Aymaret was disburdening her- 
self of her delicate commission in her own name 


210 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


and Beatrice’s. The Marquis’s forehead clouded 
over, but while he evinced extreme surprise and 
considerable impatience, he was too upright 
not to admit to himself that he was acting a 
role between Fabrice and his wife that was lia- 
ble to be misinterpreted, though unjustly. He 
appeared very sensitive to the fear of compro- 
mising Beatrice, — and perhaps still more so to 
that of being the means of bringing ridicule and 
disrespect upon Fabrice. It was evident that 
his feeling toward the painter was one of deep 
esteem, even of respect, and that he rejected 
almost with affright the thought of betraying 
the confidence of the great and simple-hearted 
artist. He was quite ready to admit the neces- 
sity of at least restricting those relations which 
might give rise to suspicion. He even agreed 
that his marriage would be the surest means of 
breaking definitely with the past. But why 
America? Why Miss Nicholson rather than 
any one else? Mme. d’Aymaret succeeded in 
carrying this last entrenchment by revealing 
the secret adoration that the pretty millionaire 
had dedicated to him, a species of flattery that 
always appeals more or less directly to a man’s 
heart. 

“But you know,” he said, after he had finally 
surrendered, “that I cannot go to-night ! you 
will grant me a few days, I suppose?” 


PASSION. 


21 1 


“Not very many, my dear sir, for I set out 
myself in a week, and I would just as lief that 
you should not be hanging around here very 
long after I am gone.” 

“I am delighted by the trust that you repose 
in me. But so be it ! I will leave by the next 
steamer from Havre, for, after all, I can’t swim 
over there. Do you require my word on it?” 

“If you please !” 

“I give it to you.” 

“Thanks. Remember that you are not to 
let Beatrice know the time of your departure.” 

“That is all right. But I can say good-by to 
her, I suppose?” 

“That is no more than natural!” said the 
young woman. 

The train was just entering the station as 
they reached it. They had the car to them- 
selves all the way to Paris, and during the 
journey Mme. d’Aymaret and he reached an 
understanding as to the terms of the letter 
which she intended writing the next day to 
Miss Nicholson to apprize her of the Marquis 
de Pierrepont’s approaching American trip. 

She was surprised, and at the same time 
extremely delighted by the victorious termina- 
tion of her double campaign. She said to her- 
self, not without reason, that the feeble resist- 
ance which Pierre and Beatrice had opposed to 


2 12 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


such a sacrifice told convincingly how conscious 
they themselves were of the irregularity and 
the dangers of their position. 

That same evening she wrote briefly to Bea- 
trice, in words that would be understood by her 
alone, apprizing her of the result of her inter- 
view with Pierrepont. She received several 
visits from the Marquis in the course of the 
succeeding days, while she was busy with 
preparations for her departure, and satisfied 
his curiosity by furnishing him with such infor- 
mation as he asked for as to the personality 
and the family connections of her whom he was 
about to accept as his fiancee. This was a fresh 
guaranty for the sincerity of his resolve, of 
which his plighted word, moreover, left no room 
for doubt. 

Mme. d’Aymaret was to set out, with her 
husband and children, on the first of May, which 
fell on a Tuesday. She went to Bellevue the 
evening before for a last kiss from Beatrice, 
whom she left in a condition of deep melancholy, 
but resigned and tearless. She knew that Pierre- 
pont had been there that morning and had 
informed Fabrice of his projected travels. He 
was to start three or four days later, on Satur- 
day, the fifth of May, the sailing-day of the 
steamer on which he had secured his berth. In 
his farewell visit to Mme. d’Aymaret, he pro- 


PASSION. 


213 


mised to cable her as soon as he reached New 
York. As he was about leaving her, the kind- 
hearted young woman held up her blushing 
cheek to him : 

“Kiss your sister,” she simply said. The 
next day she left Paris. 

Up to Friday, the day preceding his depar- 
ture, Pierrepont was irresolute whether he would 
or would not make another visit to Bellevue. 
He finally decided the question in the affirma- 
tive, after having written Beatrice two or three 
farewell letters that he considered either too 
cold or too warm, and burned. Having reached 
the painter’s, he passed through the little gate- 
way and went directly to the studio, where he 
found Beatrice sitting beside her husband and 
occupying herself with her embroidery. 

“My dear friend,” he said, “I am come at all 
hazards to give you a shake of the hand, for I 
don’t know if I shall see you again before my 
flight to America.” 

“What! are you going so soon?” said Fabrice, 
laying down his brushes. “What is your great 
hurry? Ah! pardon me; I have an idea what 
it is. You see my wife has not been very close- 
mouthed.” 

“Oh ! that is all in the cloudy limbo of the 
future ; the voyage is the only thing that is fully 
decided upon.” 


214 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


After this all his conversation was upon the 
subject of the panels, of which he warmly 
praised the grand conception, at the same time 
hazarding some slight criticisms of detail that 
the artist either accepted or combated with his 
customary modesty and good-nature. An half- 
hour passed in this desultory chat, in which the 
painter’s wife took but a small share ; she kept 
on drawing her silk through and through the 
cloth with a preoccupied air, her pretty brown 
head bent over the canvas : only a brief word 
or two now and then, and a few furtive glances 
from her sombre blue eyes directed upon him 
who was about to leave them. 

When Pierrepont and Fabrice had shaken 
hands for the last time, she arose. “I will see 
you to the door,” she said. 

He bowed and they both left the atelier. 
Silently they ascended the steps that led up to 
the level of the plateau. There, in front of the 
little villa, were a lawn and some flower-beds, 
set in the sanded alleys. Notwithstanding the 
earliness of the season, the day had been op- 
pressively warm, and in the afternoon a storm 
had broken over Paris; then the rain, which 
had fallen in torrents, had ceased, but the sky 
was still lowering and the clouds were charged 
with electricity. Their nostrils were saluted 
by that penetrating odor that the warm sum* 


PASSION. 


mer rain draws forth from the earth, the grass, 
the foliage and the flowers. The early roses, 
the lilacs and the acacias were filling the air 
with their overpowering perfume. Beatrice and 
Pierrepont walked slowly to and fro along the 
alley-ways for some minutes without exchang- 
ing a word, stopping here and there to cast an 
unconscious glance upon the confused edifices of 
distant Paris, upon which the setting sun at in- 
tervals darted his blazing beams through rents 
and fissures in the clouds. 

All at once, with an abrupt exertion of the 
will, Beatrice said : 

“We must part, — it must be so. But first I 
wish to give you something for her." 

She walked with rapid steps toward the 
house. Her own apartment, consisting of a 
drawing-room, a boudoir and her bed-room, 
occupied the whole of the ground floor; Fa- 
brice and Marcelle had rooms on the floor 
above. Beatrice ascended the three or four 
steps that conducted to the main entrance of 
the house, turned her head, murmuring: “I 
will return !” and entered the drawing-room. 
Pierrepont, irresolute, waited a few seconds 
and then followed her. The room was rather 
dark, the blinds having been closed all day as a 
protection against the heat, but Pierrepont 
could see that Beatrice was not there. She 


21 6 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


appeared a moment after, however, coming 
from her bed-room. In her hand she held a 
jewel-case. 

"It is your bracelet,” she said in a low voice ; 
"the bracelet that you sent me from London 
for my wedding. Give it to your fiancee on 
my behalf. I wish my sacrifice to be com- 
plete.” 

Pierrepont took the case from her. He en- 
deavored to thank her, but his emotion was too 
great ; his voice failed him. He took the hand 
that she extended to him : 

"Adieu !” she said. 

"Adieu !” re-echoed Pierrepont. 

But the fatal word had no more than passed 
their lips than they were in each other’s arms, 
forgetful of Heaven and earth 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 

P IERREPONT’S departure, and his mar- 
riage as well, were now out of the question. 
The subject was not even discussed between 
him and Beatrice, but they often had to ask 
themselves the question how they were to ex- 
plain this alteration of plans to those who were 
chiefly concerned. The information of Pierre- 
pont’s trip had been communicated to Miss 
Nicholson too guardedly that there should be 
any occasion for their troubling themselves 
about the deception in her case ; but how about 
Mme. d’Aymaret? how were they to go to 
work to justify a broken pledge to her, which 
would of necessity arouse her worst suspicions? 
Pierrepont could see no better way of escap- 
ing the difficulty than to write, giving the trite 
excuse that unforeseen business of importance 
obliged him to put off his departure. She could 
not have believed him, for she did not answer. 
Neither did she write to Beatrice, who, entirely 
absorbed in her newly liberated passion, scarcely 
heeded the affront of her silence. As for 


217 


an ARTIST’S HONOR. 

Fabrice, he made no difficulty in admitting that 
it was quite natural for Pierrepont to put off a 
journey for which he had never shown any 
great inclination. 

Then Pierrepont and Beatrice began to lead 
that life that is made up of the most intoxicat- 
ing pleasure blended with the bitterest poison, 
neglected duties with the stings of remorse, 
concealed delights with secret terror, which is 
always the life of a guilty love. At last they 
could converse together of the past without 
reserve, give and receive the confidences of all 
that each had felt and suffered for the other, 
and wipe out the last traces of the terrible mis- 
understanding that had parted them. Even 
the transports of passion could scarcely vie in 
enchanting pleasure with these mutual disclos- 
ures, these hours of tenderness. Their tete-k- 
tetes, however, were infrequent, even more in- 
frequent than before their fault ; no longer 
conscious of their innocence, they had to guard 
themselves more closely. And yet they did 
not guard themselves sufficiently. Fabrice, in 
truth, was of too generous and trusting a 
nature, ever since their visit at the Genets he 
had been too cognizant of the close intimacy 
that existed between Pierrepont and Beatrice, 
perhaps, too, his work absorbed his attention 
too entirely, for him to suspect of his own 


THE SHOO TING-MA TCH. 2 i 9 

motion the treachery of which he was the vic- 
tim ; but there was an eye that was more dis- 
trustful, and unfortunately more clear-sighted, 
that was watching in his behalf. 

The antipathy which his brother-in-law, Gus- 
tave Calvat, had conceived for Beatrice, owing 
to their daily disagreements and the contempt 
which the young woman took no pains to con- 
ceal, had gone on increasing more and more 
until it assumed the intensity of hatred. Neither 
had he any great affection for the Marquis de 
Pierrepont, who had always treated him with 
lofty coldness. Although Fabrice in the kind- 
ness of his heart continued to receive him 
under his roof and open his purse to him, Cal- 
vat could not fail to see that he was not wanted, 
that he was invited less frequently to dinner, 
that Beatrice, who was giving much of her time 
and attention to little Marcelle’s education, was 
careful to avoid leaving the child alone with 
him for any length of time. There was no 
revenge that he was not capable of wreaking 
upon the woman who, little by little, was driv- 
ing him from the house that he looked upon as 
his own. 

Fabrice, in order to economize his own time, 
had on two or three occasions requested his 
assistance in some of the detail work of the 
great undertaking that he was engaged on. 


220 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


Calvat profited by this circumstance to increase 
the frequency of his visits to his relative’s 
studio under the pretense of offering his ser- 
vices ; when they were not needed he went to 
smoke in the garden or roamed about the house 
in quest of little Marcelle. 

One day when he had been walking with the 
child in the park, he entered the studio abruptly, 
and having taken pains to assure himself that 
Fabrice was alone : 

“My friend,’’ he said, “I wish to speak to 
you.’’ 

“Speak,” said the painter, calmly going on 
with his work. 

“I should be very sorry to do anything to 
annoy you,” Calvat continued, “but I shall be 
obliged if you will send Marcelle back to the 
convent at Auteuil. She is my sister’s daugh- 
ter, and there are duties that I owe to her.” 

Fabrice slowly descended from his elevation 
upon the step-ladder and looking steadily at 
Calvat, said: “What does that mean?” 

“It means that Marcelle is in bad company 
here and ought not to remain here.” 

“My dear Gustave,” said Fabrice, “Marcelle 
is here in the hands of an honest woman, an 
excellent mother, a devoted instructress, — and 
here she shall remain.” 

“My dear Jacques,” replied Calvat, “I regret 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 


221 


that I am compelled to open your eyes and un- 
settle the favorable opinion that you entertain 
of your princess ; but you will have it so. 
Well! do you know the question that Marcelle 
asked me just now concerning that excellent 
mother and devoted instructress of hers? 
‘Uncle,’ she said to me, ‘do ladies and gentle- 
men kiss each other when they are not re- 
lated?’ ‘Sometimes,’ I answered, ‘on certain 
occasions, — at fetes. Why do you ask that, 
little one?’ ‘Because yesterday afternoon, after 
dinner, as I came into the salon after I had 
been to the studio to say good-night to father, 
I saw M. de Pierrepont kissing mamma.’ ” 

The words were hardly out of his mouth 
when Fabrice seized him by the collar of his 
coat and shook him almost off his feet. 

“You cur!” he said ; “you are drunk ! Clear 
out! Get out of my house!” And he pushed 
him through the large bay-window which 
served as an entrance to the atelier. 

“Poor dupe !” Calvat muttered sneeringly. 

“I told you to go!” said Fabrice, advancing 
toward him. 

Calvat shook his head with an air of menace 
and took himself off, followed by Fabrice, who 
kept him in sight until he saw him pass through 
the gateway. 

The painter re-entered his studio and mechan- 


222 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


ically attempted to go on with his work, but 
he stood there with eyes fixed on vacancy, 
his lifeless hand holding the brush poised in air. 
He laid aside his palette and his brushes with 
a heart-sick air, and seating himself on the edge 
of a table, abandoned himself to his reflections. 
Yes, Calvat was a miserable wretch, — utterly 
degraded by sloth and debauchery, — capable of 
any baseness to satisfy his passions of envy and 
hatred. He detested Beatrice ; he had always 
pursued her with his underhanded malevo- 
lence, — and now he had come to open calumny. 
It was perfectly plain. All these thoughts 
passed through Fabrice’s mind, but he said to 
himself that his wife, of whom he was as pas- 
sionately fond as he was on their wedding-day, 
had never ceased to be as cold to him as mar- 
ble. This coldness was doubtless due to her 
temperament ; but how many times it had bit- 
terly served to recall to his mind the predic- 
tions, the treacherous insinuations of Mme. de 
Montauron ! How many times, indeed, had he 
seemed to detect in Beatrice that feeling that 
she was unequally mated, that sentiment of dis- 
dain, of regret, that he had been made to ap- 
prehend ! The thought that she did not love 
him was an unceasing torture to him, from 
which he found oblivion only in unintermitting 
toil. But after all, whether she loved her hus- 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 223 

band more or loved him less, she was none the 
less Beatrice, that proud, chaste creature whom 
he had seen bearing up against the temptations 
of evil fortune with such magnanimity of spirit. 
If she did not love him, she loved duty and 
honor. Her liking for Pierrepont was neither 
doubtful nor did she attempt to conceal it, but 
was it not naturally explained by circumstances 
of birth and education, by family traditions and 
memories that were common to them both? 
Was not Pierrepont himself a man who was 
cited everywhere as an example of unques- 
tionable loyalty? How could he suspect two 
such beings of an abominable duplicity, a base 
treachery, — and that on the charges of a thing 
like Calvat — on the faith of an accusation that 
had neither more nor less value than an anony- 
mous letter; for Fabrice was convinced that 
Marcelle had never uttered the words that Cal- 
vat had had the baseness to attribute to the 
poor child. Calvat had probably presumed 
that the father would never question his daugh- 
ter upon such a subject. 

As Fabrice was revolving these cruel thoughts 
within his mind, the portiere of ancient tapestry 
that closed the entrance to the apartment was 
parted and Marcelle’s bright and pretty face 
was revealed. 

“Do I disturb you, father?” she said. 


224 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


The painter became very pale. “No,” he 
replied. 

“May I come in?” 

“Certainly.” 

She entered, holding her hoop in her hand, 
and put up her forehead for a kiss. 

“You are sad?” the child asked. 

“Why should I be sad?” 

“You are not at work.” 

“I am resting a little. You have been run- 
ning, haven’t you, my dear? you are quite red.” 

“I have been taking my piano lesson with 
mamma.” 

“Your mother is always good to you?” 

“Very good.” 

“And you love her?” 

“Yes, I love her — but not so much as you! 
Now I am going out to play — under the trees — 
not in the sun — don’t be afraid !” 

She was going. He called her back. “Oh! 
I wanted to say to you, my child — Come here.” 
He took her head between his hands, and look- 
ing her directly in the eyes : “My dear, I wanted 
to ask you — one thing.” 

“What, father?” 

He hesitated for a few seconds ; then abruptly, 
with a forced smile: “I wanted to ask you to 
give me another kiss,” he said. “Go now, my 
little one! Go and play — go — quick!” 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 


225 


She left the room on a run. 

When she was out of sight, the artist, who 
had been as steady as a rock, wiped away a tear. 
Then he arose, took up his palette and began 
to paint. 

In the afternoon of the following day, he was 
astonished to see Calvat enter his studio. 

“How do you dare to show yourself in my 
house again?” he said with an air of menacing 
gravity. 

“Dear sir,” said Calvat, in a submissive tone, 
“slumber brings wisdom with it, — I have come 
to tender you an apology. I was not drunk 
yesterday, as you rather impolitely told me I 
was, and I may add that I told you no false- 
hood. I did wrong, however, I am free to con- 
fess, in coming to you with that childish prat- 
tle, which could not fail to affect you deeply, 
and which might have been — nay, which cer- 
tainly was — without foundation. I have been 
thinking the matter over, and I am convinced 
that Marcelle made up the story that she told 
me. Children, as you know, are natural liars, 
and their fibs often have that character of 
false candor and sly maliciousness that you 
may have noticed in Marcelle’s fabrication. 
It would be useless to question her; in such a 
case no one is the wiser, whether the child 
persists in her lie or confesses it. The best 


226 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


thing to do, then, it seems to me, is to pass 
the sponge over the little one’s peccadillo, 
overlook my excess of zeal, — which is suffi- 
ciently comprehensible, — and shake hands.” 

Calvat’s explanation did not seem improb- 
able. It brought a partial alleviation to the 
torture that was harassing Fabrice’s mind that 
disarmed his anger. 

“Be it so,” he said, holding out his hand. “But 
I will not listen to a word that reflects upon my 
wife ! and I hope that you will remember it.” 

Still, after that day when suspicion had come 
and taken up its abode within his breast, the 
painter, no matter what control he might put 
upon himself, could not wholly conceal from 
Pierrepont and his wife the evidences of the 
trouble by which he was beset. They had an 
indistinct consciousness that they were being 
more closely watched. They mutually agreed 
to make their meetings less frequent, and as a 
result of this their passion, being restrained 
within narrower limits, became more impatient 
and unreasoning. They never met outside the 
villa at Bellevue, Beatrice having firmly rejected 
all the plans that Pierrepont had proposed to 
facilitate their interviews. She was guilty, but 
even in her guilt she preserved an elevation of 
mind that would not have recourse to the expedi- 
ents of vulgar gallantry. As matters stood with 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 


227 


them, it was not to be expected that they 
should not be assailed by the fatal temptation 
of corresponding in order to make up for their 
straitened opportunities for oral communica- 
tion, — and it was for this that Calvat was 
watching. 

As the reader may have suspected, Calvat’s 
regret for his tale-bearing had only been 
assumed, and he had made his submission to 
Fabrice only that he might again secure entrance 
to the house and have an opportunity of play- 
ing the spy at his ease over her whom it was 
his aim to destroy. Calvat was a rascal, but he 
was by no means a fool, and in particular he 
was possessed of those detective instincts and 
tastes which are common enough in Bohemians 
of his class. Even before Marcelle had asked 
him that innocent and appalling question that 
he had carried to Fabrice with such a display 
of eagerness, he had suspected, with the malig- 
nity and acuteness that hate inspires, that 
there was a liaison between Pierrepont and Bea- 
trice, and now he had proof positive of it ; but 
he knew that it would be his inevitable ruin if 
he endeavored to impart his knowledge to 
Fabrice without having irrefutable proof to 
bring in its support. 

Convinced by a series of logical deductions 
that the two lovers must be in correspondence. 


228 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR . 


he set himself to discover their means of com- 
munication. Beatrice’s long and frequent walks 
at the bottom of the garden seemed suspicious 
to him, and he thought that letters might be 
exchanged over the low boundary wall that 
skirted the road, but his vigilance met with no 
reward in this direction. Could it be that they 
were openly using the mails? To assure him- 
self on this point, Calvat made it his business 
to be on hand at the gate of the villa pretty 
frequently of a morning at the hour when the 
carrier came along with the letters. This man, 
knowing him to be the painter’s brother-in-law, 
made no difficulty in giving him what letters 
there were for the house, and Calvat studied 
their addresses with care. Although Fabrice 
never opened his wife’s letters, it was not likely 
that Pierrepont would write to Beatrice with- 
out taking extraordinary precautions. After a 
few days of espionage, Calvat was struck by 
the number of letters that came to the villa 
bearing this superscription : Madame la Vicom- 
tesse d' Aymaret, care of Madame Jacques Fa- 
brice. His attention was attracted to them the 
more that the writing seemed to be in a 
counterfeited hand. He made up his mind to 
open one of them. With the exception of the 
address, it was entirely in Pierrepont’s writing. 
It ran as follows : 


THE SHOO TING-MA TCH. 229 

“Yes, dear Beatrice, the lying, deceitful life 
that we are leading is unworthy of us both. I 
am glad that you feel as I do. So long as it 
lasts, our happiness is but illusion, our love but 
suffering, — and have we not had enough of 
suffering? Believe me, I am as incapable as 
you are of endeavoring to stifle my conscience 
by hypocritical words. I know that we have 
erred, but was there ever sin of love that had 
more to excuse it? Did ever such fatalities 
intervene to part two sincere and upright 
hearts? Yes, we are culpable, but we are vic- 
tims too; but persistence in this shameful life 
of duplicity would indeed be criminal and 
unpardonable. It follows that we must go 
away. I beseech you, my loved one, give 
your consent; trust yourself to me; all my 
measures are taken. I will do all that it is 
possible for man to do to make your exile one 
lasting enchantment. I love thee. 

“Pierre.” 

When he had finished reading, Calvat’s face 
contracted in a hideous smile. He folded up 
the letter again, let himself in at the gate, and 
directed his steps toward Fabrice’s studio. 

“Oh ! it’s you !” said the painter. “I thought 
it was the Marquis; he was to be here this 
morning.” 


230 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


“No, it is only I,” said Calvat. “My dear 
sir,” he continued, lowering his voice a little, 
“I hope that this time you wont accuse me of 
lying and being drunk; chance has thrown into 
my possession a letter of the highest interest to 
you. Whatever sorrow it may cause me, it is 
impossible for me, as your relation and your 
friend, to withhold it from you, — as you your- 
self will admit when you have read it.” 

“I will not read it,” replied Fabrice, pushing 
away the hand with which Calvat held out to 
him the letter. “Get out of here this instant, 
and I forbid you ever to put your foot in my 
house again.” 

“You will send for me,” Calvat answered, “and 
as I don’t bear malice I will come at your first 
call. That letter is from Pierrepont, and it is 
directed to your wife. I leave it with you.” 
He threw it on the table and left the studio. 

When alone, the artist suffered a moment of 
frightful perplexity. Motionless, as if turned 
to stone, he looked at the table, and upon the 
table, the letter. At last he advanced with a 
constrained step, the step of a statue ; he grasped 
the letter, hesitated, made a movement as if he 
would tear it up ; then, with a sudden effort, he 
opened and read it. 

Calvat, as he passed the front of the house 
on his way out, had seen Beatrice sitting with 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 231 

her work at an open window of the drawing- 
room. He came quickly up to her and thrust- 
ing his head and body partially into the 
room : 

“Madame,” he said, “I have the pleasure of 
informing you that at this very moment that I 
have the honor of addressing you, your husband 
is engaged in reading your lover's last letter. 
Good-day!” and he went off toward the gate. 
As he was about to close it behind him, some 
one at a distance motioned to him to leave it 
open ; it was Pierrepont, coming from the sta- 
tion. They bowed ; Calvat disappeared at a 
corner of the street, and Pierrepont entered the 
villa. 

Beatrice was stupefied by the intelligence that 
she had received, as if a thunderbolt had burst 
above her head ; she had heard Calvat’s words, 
but could not grasp their meaning. Then all 
at once a terrible light streamed in upon her 
mind and she understood : one of Pierrepont’s 
letters was in her husband’s possession. She saw 
at a glance, in threatening chaos, all that would 
emanate within a few brief moments from 
the folds of that fatal letter: dishonor, shame, 
destruction, death. She closed her eyes, and 
for an instant was only conscious of utter dark- 
ness crossed by streams of fiery sparks. She 
was suddenly aroused from this half-dazed con- 


232 - AN ARTIST' S HONOR . 

dition by the sound of steps upon the sand of 
the pathway. She looked out, and to her 
inexpressible terror recognized the Marquis de 
Pierrepont, who was passing through the garden 
on his way to Fabrice’s studio. She arose ; then 
suddenly, without reflection or definite purpose, 
hurried madly onward by her fear of an immi- 
nent conflict between the two men, she rushed 
to the steps, her embroidery in her hand, 
descended them swiftly, and flew with headlong 
speed to the studio where Pierrepont had just 
disappeared. 

The great bay-window which served as an 
entrance to the studio was closed by two por- 
tieres which left a narrow vestibule between 
them. Beatrice hurriedly raised the first and 
stood there and listened as well as the fierce 
pulsations of her heart would permit ; she could 
even catch a glimpse of what was passing in 
the atelier through the opening of the second 
portiere. 

When Pierrepont entered, Fabrice was en- 
gaged in loading a pair of pistols that the 
Marquis himself had given him, and that he was 
accustomed to practice with quite frequently in 
his garden when he wished a little relaxation 
from his labors. 

“These arms still continue to suit you?” said 
the Marquis, taking up the pistol that the 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 


233 


painter had just finished loading and laying it 
back again upon the table. 

“They are delightful !”said Fabrice. 

“You were going to practice?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, we will have a match, if you are will- 
ing?” 

“I am quite willing.” 

“Are you not well this morning? You look 
tired.” 

“Yes — that must be it. I have just had a 
very painful scene with Calvat.” 

“Ah ! I met him just as he was coming from 
your house.” 

“The wretch has declared eternal hatred 
against my wife.” 

“That is visible enough.” 

“He was slandering her just now in the most 
frightful manner.” 

“That proves that he is a bad man; nothing 
more.” 

“I drove him from the house.” 

“A good riddance, I should say, between our- 
selves, my dear friend.” 

“And yet, he made me uneasy, — I can only 
say this to an old friend such as you— yes, he 
made me uneasy. He left me with doubts.” 

“With doubts about a wife such as yours? 
Come, come, my friend, this is madness!” 


234 AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 

“Yes, it must be,” rejoined Fabrice. “You 
know her well, you have known her even longer 
than I have. You would answer to me for her 
honor with your own, would you not?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“And you would be right in doing so, — for 
your honor and hers are of equal value.” And 
thrusting his letter brusquely before his eyes : 
“See that !” 

Pierrepont recoiled as if he had seen a ghost, 
then grasping the pistol that he had just 
replaced upon the table and presenting it by 
the barrel to Fabrice: 

“Kill me!” he said to him. 

“No,” said the artist, “not in that manner, at 
least.” 

He took a few steps up and down the atelier, 
as if to collect his thoughts ; then returning to 
the Marquis: 

“Can you,” said he, “and will you explain to 
me a few words in your letter the meaning of 
which I did not quite catch? You invoke in 
your excuse certain mysterious circumstances 
of the past, certain fatalities to which you have 
been exposed, Mile, de Sardonne and you. 
May I know to what you allude?” 

Pierrepont briefly explained what had for- 
merly passed between Beatrice and himself, 
their mutual attachment, and how Mme. de 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 235 

Montauron had compelled the young girl to 
decline the hand that he offered her. 

After a pause of reflection and silence, 
Fabrice responded : 

“I suppose that your sentiments for Mile, de 
Sardonne will cause you to be desirous that this 
affair should be arranged between you and me 
without scandal, so that she may be spared a 
stigma in the eyes of the world, and that I, too, 
would prefer to avoid for my own name.” 

‘‘Anything that you may propose looking to 
that end,” Pierrepont said, ‘‘is accepted in ad- 
vance.” 

“An ordinary duel, with its accompaniment 
of seconds, would give the whole business to 
the public. You just now offered to shoot me 
a match with pistols. I think that we are of 
about equal strength — I accept. For the one 
of us that wins, let it be life; for the other, 
suicide.” 

‘‘Let it be so,” said Pierrepont ; ‘‘it is agreed.” 

‘‘Each of us pledges his honor to abide by 
these conditions.” 

‘‘It is agreed.” 

‘‘Now,” said the painter, ‘‘I have to bring 
myself to make a request of you. I know that 
it is quite contrary to precedent, and I ask you 
to excuse me. It is this. If I am to leave my 
daughter an orphan, I would wish at least not 


236 


AN ARTIST S HONOR. 


to leave her penniless. Now, I have nothing, 
saving a hundred thousand francs that Nichol- 
son paid me on account of those panels, — and 
that I should have to refund to him in case I 
should leave my work unfinished. He is to pay 
me in addition double that sum upon delivery 
of the panels completed. I do not think that 
I shall be able to complete them inside of four 
months. What I ask you, then, is to grant me 
this respite of four months in case that it is I 
who have to die, — and I need not say that this 
agreement will act reciprocally.” 

There was something so affecting in this pre- 
caution of the poor artist that Pierrepont had 
to turn his head to conceal the convulsive work- 
ing of his features. “It shall be as you wish,” 
said he. 

The painter put the pistols in their box and 
went and got some pasteboard targets. “I am 
accustomed to these pistols,” said he; “would 
you prefer to have others?” 

“It is useless!” said Pierrepont. “I have 
practised a great deal with them myself. Let 
us go !” 

They left the studio, and descending the 
steps that led to the garden, took their way to 
the long alley that has been mentioned more 
than once in the course of this story. It will 
be remembered, perhaps, that a butt had been 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 


237 


set up at one end of this walk, and facing it, at 
the other end, there was a rustic seat placed 
against the wall. As Pierrepont and Fabrice 
approached the butt to fasten up the paper tar- 
get, they saw Beatrice sitting on this bench ; 
she was working at her embroidery. 

The two men exchanged glances. They were 
both aware that the long alley was Beatrice’s 
favorite retreat and promenade, so that they 
were not surprised to find her there; they 
could not believe that anything but chance had 
brought her to the spot. Her presence, how- 
ever, during the scene that was now about to 
take place imparted to it an air of tragedy by 
which both were deeply impressed. It also im- 
posed on them the necessity of dissembling 
both in looks and language, which, at such a 
moment, was as disagreeable as it was nec- 
essary. 

Beatrice, however, sustained by the very hor- 
ror of the situation and by her extreme nervous 
tension, kept on plying her needle with an ap- 
pearance of tranquillity, and she even acknowl- 
edged Pierrepont’s salutation with her usual 
smile as she gave him her hand. 

“It is a beautiful day, isn’t it?” said she. 

“Yes, a regular summer day. Fabrice and I 
are going to shoot a match, you see.” 

“Ah! which of you is the more skilful?” 


23S 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


Pierrepont made a gesture indicating uncer- 
tainty. “That is what we are going to ascer- 
tain,” said he. 

Fabrice placed the mahogany box and a 
package of cartridges on the bench at her side. 

The arms that they were to use were Flobert 
pistols of maximum calibre. The targets were 
divided in the usual manner into a certain num- 
ber of concentric rings described about a cen- 
tral bull’s-eye, black with a white centre. The 
range was the length of the alley, that is to say, 
about twenty-five paces. They concluded the 
arrangement of their conditions within hearing 
of Beatrice, who, though apparently preoccu- 
pied, was closely attentive to all that was going 
on. The arrangement was that they were to 
have seven shots apiece, firing at will ; at the 
first two turns each was to have two shots in 
succession, and at the third three shots, also in 
succession. Each division of the target hit by 
the marksmen gave them the usual number of 
points determined by custom in contests of this 
kind : the outer circle one point, the bull’s-eye 
seven. 

The tossing of a coin decided that Fabrice 
was to fire first. He commenced, therefore, 
and placed his first two balls within the interior 
of the second circle. Pierrepont, either less 
skilful or more unlucky, lost one of his balls in 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 


239 


the butt ; the other struck the outer edge of 
the target. This first turn, therefore, gave 
Fabrice four points and the Marquis only 
one. 

“I think that you are favoring me,” said the 
painter. 

“Not a bit of it,” the Marquis replied. 

At the second bout Fabrice lodged his two 
balls in the third circle ; Pierrepont followed 
him and scored two and two. Fabrice stood 
ten points to his adversary’s five. 

The third and last turn gave him a still more 
decisive advantage ; he made twelve points with 
his three balls. The score then stood twenty- 
two to five. 

Pierrepont, whose manner seemed to indicate 
a sort of unconcerned hopelessness, was mak- 
ing ready in turn to fire his three last shots; he 
was just cocking his pistol, when a slight rust- 
ling caused him to turn his head and he met 
Beatrice’s burning glance turned full upon him 
with an intensity of expression that seemed to 
penetrate to the very bottom of his soul. He at 
once comprehended that she knew everything. 
She knew everything, and this despairing, dis- 
tracted, beseeching, imperious look entreated 
and commanded him to save himself and live 
for her sake. Never had her sombre beauty 
seemed to have such power of fascination. — He 


240 


AN ‘ ARTIST'S HONOR. 


took his place, aimed carefully and fired. His 
first two balls penetrated the narrow black 
circle that surrounded the white centre of the 
bull’s-eye; the third ploughed through the 
centre itself. He had marked nineteen points 
in the round, so that he had twenty-four to 
twenty-two. Fabrice was doomed. 

The smoke from the last discharge was still 
hanging in the air, when a loud peal of laughter 
resounded in the ears of the two astounded 
men. Beatrice had suddenly started to her feet, 
with eyes wide staring and a glitter in them like 
that of madness; she stammered forth some 
unintelligible words, then broke out anew into 
wild, hysterical bursts of laughter, so long con- 
tinued that they seemed to be repeated and 
prolonged over the neighboring fields by some 
ill-omened echo. Fabrice, seeing that she was 
tottering and about to 'fall, sustained her and 
replaced her gently upon the bench ; her voice 
gradually became feebler and feebler, her frame 
was shaken by a slight convulsive movement, 
and she fainted. 

“She must have overheard us !” the painter 
murmured, as if speaking to himself. He 
turned to Pierrepont, who was standing at a 
little distance, motionless, as pale as a corpse 
in its winding-sheet. “Please leave us ? sir,” he 
said to him, 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 241 

Pierrepont hesitated, and pointed to Beatrice 
lying lifeless upon the bench. 

“Do you think, then,” said the painter, “that 
I could be capable of ill-treating a woman, — 
even such an one as fhat ?” 

Pierrepont bowed, raised his hat, and retired. 

Fabrice, taking Beatrice’s handkerchief, which 
had fallen at his feet, went and dipped it in the 
water of a little fountain set in rock-work that 
stood in the middle of the alley, and returning 
to his wife, bathed her face and temples. She 
came to herself after a few minutes ; at first she 
cast an inquiring glance about her, then fast- 
ened it upon her husband ; a hollow groan 
and the abrupt movement with which she 
covered her eyes with her hand told that her 
recollection was returning, that the conscious- 
ness of the terrible reality was coming back to 
her. 

“Beatrice,” said the painter, “if an explana- 
tion is too painful to you just now, I will put 
it off.” 

“Oh no! Let it be now!” she murmured. 

“It will not be a long one, at all events,” said 
Fabrice, “for if I am not mistaken, there is but 
little that is unknown to you. Your nerves 
betrayed you. You heard what passed between 
the Marquis de Pierrepont and me in my atelier 
an half-hour ago, did you not? 


242 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


She motioned with her head that she had 
heard. 

“Then you understand the reason why I 
wished to avoid the publicity, the scandal of a 
duel? You are aware that it was my object to 
spare you the infliction of a stain upon your 
reputation, — which might also reflect upon my 
innocent daughter?” 

She again bowed her head in affirmation. 

“You must see that this precaution would 
lose all its efficacy, would be altogether unavail- 
ing, should you leave your husband’s house so 
long as he is still alive. That would have the 
effect of revealing to the public what it imports 
you quite as much as it does me to keep con- 
cealed. I know how hard it will be, knowing 
what we both know, to live together for a space 
of three or four months; but since I am able 
to do it, I hope that you will also find sufficient 
courage.” 

“Whatever you will !” 

“To sustain you in this trial, you will have 
the consoling thought that soon you will be 
unreservedly his — his, for whom, as we were 
staking our lives, your prayers went up.” 

Beatrice did not answer. 

“To conclude,” Fabrice added, “I do not 
think that I have any line of conduct to lay 
down for you. I suppose that you will not for- 


THE SHOOTING-MATCH. 


243 


get, the Marquis de Pierrepont and you, the 
respect due to a man whose days are num- 
bered.” 

With these words he left her and returned to 
his studio. 

She remained until nightfall in the fatal alley, 
now walking wildly to and fro, now seating her- 
self, crushed and dazed, upon her bench. Could 
it be she who was sitting there? — who had just 
taken part in that frightful scene? Could it be 
she, Beatrice, who had just received — and, alas! 
deserved — the stinging reproach that Fabrice 
had made her? — for she had not dared to deny 
it, — it was too true that at a moment when 
her husband’s life was at stake against another 
man’s, it had not been for her husband that she 
had trembled, — it was too true that in her pas- 
sion she had nerved Pierrepont’s hand when she 
saw that it was reluctant to strike, — and that 
when she saw that the award of death had 
fallen to her husband, the first impulse of her 
soul had been one of fierce delight. Then 
she learned, poor creature ! — as so many have 
learned before her, — to what extent passion can 
pervert and brutalize the purest and noblest 
minds when they suffer it to hold sovereign 
sway over the ruined fragments of honor, will, 
and reason, 




CHAPTER XV. 

AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 

S EVERAL weeks have passed. We are in 
August. Beatrice and Pierrepont have not 
met again. Actuated by a common scruple, 
they have even avoided communicating by writ- 
ing. All that Beatrice knows of Pierrepont is 
that he is spending his summer in Paris, con- 
trary to his usual habit, and she presumes that 
he is there awaiting orders from her. 

One morning he received the following note 
from her: 

“I beseech you to start at once for Glion. I 
know that Mme. d’Aymaret is there still ; con- 
fide everything to her. Tell her that I throw 
myself at her feet, that I await her, that I am 
becoming mad.” 

A few hours later the Marquis was on his 
way to Switzerland. He reached Glion the fol- 
lowing afternoon, and two days after that Mme. 
d’Aymaret, whose husband’s health was much 
improved, was in Paris, whence she proceeded 
immediately to Bellevue. The painter’s wife 
244 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


245 


uttered a low cry as she saw her enter her draw- 
ing-room : “Elise!” — and joined her hands and 
looked at her with an air of supplication. 
Mine. d’Aymaret opened her arms, and Bea- 
trice fell into them with heart-rending sobs. 

“Ah !” she said through her tears, “how I 
thank you for coming! For two months I 
have not shed a tear!” Then, when she was a 
little calmer: “Did he tell you everything?” 

“Everything.” 

“Well, what do you think? For I, for my 
part, can no longer think.” 

“I think,” said Mme. d’Aymaret, “that noth- 
ing must be left undone to save your husband’s 
life.” 

“That is impossible. He will not have it !” 

“He will not have it ! Whom do you mean?” 

“He — my husband !” 

“Why?” 

“Because he has pledged his word !” 

Mme. d’Aymaret replied in a tone of severity, 
almost of harshness: “Beatrice, if I could think 
for a single minute that you are capable of look- 
ing forward to your approaching widowhood 
without a feeling of horror, I would never speak 
to you again as long as I live.” 

“Listen to me,” said Beatrice. “I have felt 
that horrible sentiment that you ascribe to 
me,— I felt it during the combat, — while their 


246 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


two lives were at stake. For a long time it 
possessed me, it haunted me, try as I would to 
rid myself of it. Now — it must be that God has 
not forsaken me entirely — for He has suffered 
that I should gain the better of this frightful 
temptation, — now I can affirm to you in all 
sincerity that I would give my own life to save 
the life of that unhappy man/’ 

“Then you love him !” exclaimed Mme. 
d’Aymaret. 

“I do not love him! but I pity him so — oh! 
I pity him so ! He has done so little to deserve 
this long agony that he has to bear! and he 
bears it with such courage, such gentleness! I 
am his prisoner — he might make my life here 
a torture to me, a martyrdom, and never, save 
on the first day, at the first moment, has he 
uttered a reproachful word, a bitter expression. 
He tr.eats me just as he used to do, so that 
there are moments, when I hear him speak to 
me, when I see him smile on me, — there are 
moments when I really think that there has 
nothing happened, and that it is all nothing but 
a frightful dream !’’ 

“That is because he loves you still, my poor 
darling, and in that case there is no reason to 
despair !” 

“It is not because he loves me — how could 
he? No, it is because he remembers, he is mak- 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


247 


ing me atone for my arrogance, my pride of 
birth, my poor, miserable disdainfulness; it is 
because he wishes to show me that an artist can 
suffer and die like a gentleman.” 

“How much time remains,” inquired Mme. 
d’Aymaret, “before the fatal day?” 

“I do not know, for if he cannot exceed the 
term, he can anticipate it. It all depends upon 
his work — as soon as it is completed he will 
certainly kill himself!” 

“And how does his work stand? Don’t you 
know? Don’t you ever go to his atelier?” 

“Pardon me! I mustered up courage and 
went there a few days ago. I took a seat and 
worked at his side; he paid no attention to 
me, — only addressed me a word now and 
then — some indifferent expression Oh ! it was 
frightful !” 

Her feelings again overmastered her, and she 
wept for a moment in silence. 

“I asked you, dear,” said Mme. d’Aymaret, 
“how he is getting along with his work?” 

“He has it well advanced ; the poor man does 
not waste a minute. At earliest daybreak he 
is up and away to his panels. What he has 
done is admirable ! How can he command 
courage to work, with such a burthen resting on 
his mind? I do not understand it!” 

“You say that he seems tranquil?” 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


248 

“He seems tranquil, yes! — but his hair is 
growing white.” 

“Ah ! he must be saved i” exclaimed Mme. 
d’Aymaret, rising from her seat. “You entrust 
me with full power, do you not? You approve 
beforehand of any means that I may attempt?” 

“Everything — anything in the world! And 
from the bottom of my heart, as God is my 
judge!” 

“Well, write Pierrepont to that effect ; I shall 
see him to-morrow.” 

Beatrice immediately seated herself at her 
desk and rapidly wrote these two lines : 

“To the Marquis de Pierrepont: 

“Whatever Elise requests from you, that I 
also request upon my knees.” 

The next day Pierrepont called upon the 
Vicomtesse in response to a note from her. 
The first thing that she did was to hand him 
Beatrice’s communication. 

“What is required?” the Marquis gravely said, 
after having read it. 

“Fabrice must not be allowed to carry out 
his suicide when the time comes. Can we 
count upon your assistance to that end?” 

“Can you doubt it? It is as if you were to 
tell a murderer that you could deliver him from 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 249 

his conscience. — But what can I do? I do not 
think — ” 

“So far as I can judge,” Mme. d’Aymaret 
replied, “there are two obstacles that must be 
removed to enable us to attain our end ; in 
the first place there is the point of honor, the 
plighted word by which Fabrice is bound. 
Could you not give him back this word, and in 
such terms that he would consent to receive 
it?” 

“I am quite ready to do so, — but — ” 

“You fear that he will refuse?” 

“I fear so; still, I will make the attempt, and 
in all sincerity, as you shall see.” 

“That is no more than I expected from you. 
As for the second obstacle that we should have 
to overcome, it lies in Fabrice’s conviction that, 
should he consent to live, you would be always 
coming between his wife and him ; for he cannot 
think otherwise than that you are both awaiting 
his death in order to marry. There is but one 
way of undeceiving him, and that is to return 
to your projected marriage with Kitty and 
carry it into execution with the least possible 
delay. Will you do it?” 

After a pause of reflection : “Does your 
friend,” said Pierrepont, “desire this mar- 
riage?” 

“She desires and will approve anything and 


250 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


everything that may extricate her from the 
great trouble that she is in.” 

“Well, — I will obey. I will start to-morrow. 
If there is no boat sailing from here, I will find 
one in England. You will receive the letter for 
Fabrice this evening; give it to him whenever 
you judge best to do so. Adieu, Madame.” 
He took both her hands and gave them a warm 
clasp, and withdrew. 

Two days after that he sailed on one of the 
steamers of the Transatlantique line from Havre. 
The day before, Mme. d’Aymaret had received 
the letter that he had written to Fabrice. She 
read it and found it satisfactory, but she re- 
solved not to deliver it to the painter until she 
could at the same time apprize him of Pierre- 
pont’s marriage, hoping that he would thus 
lend a more willing ear to their entreaties. 
Beatrice agreed with her in this, and as for the 
marriage itself, she received the announcement 
of it with indifference. 

Under her friend’s encouragement, she now 
saw a chance, doubtful though it might be, of 
saving her husband, and, for her own self, escap- 
ing the moral torture which she feared would 
end by destroying her reason. She none the 
less continued to watch with the intensest 
interest Fabrice’s most trivial acts, his most 
insignificant words. P'or all her foibles of 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


2SI 

aristocratic pride and worldly vanity, hers was 
too noble a heart not to be touched by the 
steadfast and heroic attitude of the artist in the 
face of death. In her admiration, mingled with 
deepest pity, and perhaps with a sentiment 
more tender still, it was only to blush for them 
that she recalled the petty grievances that she 
had cherished against her husband ; she was 
surprised that she could have so misinterpreted 
him, that she had shut her eyes so obstinately 
to all that was great and noble in the man and 
artist, only to discern a few petty blemishes 
upon the surface. Even the physical personality 
of the painter appeared to her in a new light ; 
she was struck by the natural dignity of his 
demeanor, which somehow reminded her of 
the powerful and supple carriage of the nobler 
animals; she was struck, too, by the luminous 
serenity of his brow, by the latent energy of his 
tranquil features, to which his hair, now begin- 
ning to whiten, as if thinly strewn with powder, 
imparted a strangely gentle aspect. He seemed 
to her transfigured, as if the thoughts that were 
busying and sustaining him in those supreme 
days had surrounded him with some bright 
halo. 

But time was flying. It was on the twen- 
tieth of June that the suicidal act had been 
agreed on between Pierrepont and Fabrice. 


252 AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 

The respite of four months granted to the 
painter would therefore expire on the twenti- 
eth of October. The first week of this month 
was upon them when Beatrice saw with affright 
that the great panels that were going to Amer- 
ica were at the point of completion ; they would 
even have been finished by this time, had not 
Fabrice more than ever made it a point to main- 
tain in this, his last work, that reputation for 
artistic honesty and conscientiousness that he 
had made for himself. There were now, how- 
ever, only a few slight touches to be added, 
which would scarcely require three or four 
days’ labor. M. Nicholson’s agent at Paris had 
already been there to arrange with the painter 
for the delivery and shipment of the canvases. 

As the dread term drew near, Beatrice’s an- 
guish became more haunting, more unendurable, 
more deathly. A prey to burning fever, on the 
alert by day and night watching for some sinister 
sound or some tragic spectacle, she urgently 
pressed Mme. d’Aymaret to employ upon 
Fabrice the supreme resource upon which hung 
her only hope; but Mme. d’Aymaret, who had 
been advised by Pierrepont that his marriage 
was to take place almost immediately, wished 
to'wait until the intelligence was confirmed in 
due form. At the commencement of October, 
a second letter from the Marquis apprized her 


AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 


that the event had transpired. With the letter 
came an American newspaper giving a detailed 
account of the ceremony. She hesitated no 
longer. 

In her frequent visits to Bellevue since her 
return, she had more than once met Fabrice. 
He very likely suspected that she was in Bea- 
trice’s confidence, but not the slightest allusion 
to the subject had passed between the young 
woman and himself. One morning he saw her 
walk hurriedly into his atelier. He felt very 
affectionately toward her, but inspired with a 
vague presentiment of the object of her 
errand by her anxious, and at the same time 
resolute, aspect, he assumed an air of great 
gravity. 

“You wish to speak to me, Madame?” he said 
to her. 

“Yes, I would like to speak to you. But do 
not deprive me of all my courage. Be kind to 
me, I beg you.” 

“It is no hard matter to be kind to you,” he 
replied, with a sad smile. “Come, what is it?” 
He drew forward a chair for her, for he saw that 
her strength was failing her. 

After a moment’s pause ; “Monsieur Fabrice,” 
said she, “I have to-day received information of 
a thing that it may interest you to know,” and 
with a trembling hand she gave him Pierre- 


254 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


pout’s latest letter and the American paper 
that contained an account of his marriage. 

The painter read the two documents and 
coldly returned them to her. “I thank you,” 
he said to her. 

“Monsieur Fabrice,” she said with rising 
emotion, “I have still another letter for you. 
It is addressed to you personally.” 

“Let me have it, Madame.” 

He took the letter ; it was the one that Pierre- 
pont had written just previous to his departure, 
and read in terms as follows : 

“About to leave France for along time, — for- 
ever, if you so desire, — I wish to absolve you 
from the word that you gave me. For your 
daughter’s sake, I beseech you to live. If it had 
been upon me that the doom had fallen, and 
had you restored to me my word as sincerely 
and as publicly as I now restore yours to you, 
I declare solemnly that I would not have hesi- 
tated to receive it. 

“Marquis de Pierrepont. 

“To M. Jacques Fabrice .” 

After having attentively read the note over 
twice, he handed it silently to Mme. d’Aymaret. 

“But you should keep that,” said she. 

“Very well!” he replied. 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


2 55 


She waited a moment, and seeing that he still 
remained silent and impassive: “Monsieur 
Fabrice,” she went on, “will you let me go away 
without taking with me a word of comfort? 
Your honor is now secure. Have pity on your 
child — have pity, too, on the poor culprit, — she 
has atoned so bitterly for her fault, — and if I 
might dare say something more — ” 

“No, Madame; it is sufficient, — say nothing 
more. I am deeply touched by your action 
and by the sentiments that dictated it; but 
you should understand that a moment of 
tenderness is not the fitting time to solve a 
question like that which I have to consider 
now. Let me think it over, — calmly and seri- 
ously, as it is my duty to do. My labors are 
ended to-day, and I have a few days at my 
disposal. My intention, which you are at 
liberty to impart to your friend, has all along 
been to devote those days to a short trip 
abroad — to Switzerland. This intention I still 
adhere to. I need, now more than ever, — to 
strengthen my resolution, — a tranquillity and 
freedom of mind that I cannot look for here. 
I intend to start to-morrow.” 

She looked him steadily in the eyes. He 
arose and took her hand : “An revoir , Madame,” 
he said, — and with a voice that slightly trem- 
bled: “Go, my child!” 


256 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR . 


The young woman withdrew. When outside 
the atelier, she stopped a moment to wipe the 
moisture from her eyes and then hurried toward 
the house. Beatrice, who had been feverishly 
threading the garden paths while awaiting the 
result, ran toward her as soon as she caught 
sight of her, questioning her with eager 
glances : 

“Well?” said she. 

“Well! I have hopes!” 

“Can it be possible!” And she hurried her 
into the salon. 

Then Mme. d’Aymaret related in detail all 
the particulars of her conversation with Fabrice, 
endeavoring to convince her, and to convince 
herself, that the resulting impression was favora- 
ble to them. The intelligence of the trip so 
suddenly planned by her husband alarmed Bea- 
trice, however. 

“It means death !” she said, in a low, hoarse 
tone. 

“If he has made up his mind to die, why 
should he go away?” said Mme. d’Aymaret. 

“Who can tell? To spare his daughter’s feel- 
ings — perhaps even to spare mine! He wishes 
to show his magnanimity to the last.” 

“I assure you that his language seemed to me 
to be that of truth. Before finally deciding 
upon a matter of such gravity, he wishes to re- 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 257 

fleet upon it in peace, far from recollections and 
emotions that might disturb his judgment.” 

They were interrupted by little Marcelle, 
who entered the room like a whirlwind ; she 
came and put up her mouth to Mme. d’Ayma- 
ret, and then turning to Beatrice and panting 
for breath, she said : 

“Is father really going away?” 

“Who told you so?” 

“Henriette; he told her to get his big valise 
ready.” 

“Yes, he is going to-morrow. His work has 
tired him out, and he was told to take a little 
recreation.” 

‘‘It is too bad that he is going away,” said 
the child. “I am going to help Henriette, if 
you don’t mind — so that she wont forget any- 
thing.” 

“Go, my daughter; I will be there myself in 
a moment.” 

Marcelle rah out of the room. Mme. d’Ay- 
maret had risen. 

“Do you think that I have enough suffer- 
ing?” Beatrice said to her. “There is not a 
movement made, not a word spoken in this 
house that is not torture to me — and you are 
going to leave me !” 

“Yes, I am going to leave you; — I will be 
here early in the morning, — but I should never 


258 AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 

forgive myself for coming between you two at 
such a time. I leave you to the inspiration of 
your own hearts. Till to-morrow!” 

They embraced, and Mme. d’Aymaret left 
the house. 

Beatrice ascended to her husband’s apart- 
ment to oversee the preparations for his de- 
parture. The maid told her that he had 
gone to Paris ; that he would be back for 
dinner. 

The artist’s wife passed the remainder of the 
day in wandering about the garden. Toward 
evening she visited the studio. The space left 
void by the removal of the panels gave it an 
impressive air of melancholy and abandonment. 
She remained there until dark, reflecting upon 
the thoughts and sorrows of that great intellect 
and soul that those mute walls had witnessed. 
Then the idea came to her that all was over, 
that the departure for Paris was but a pre- 
text, that her husband would never come back 
to her. She hurried back to the house. Fa- 
brice had returned some moments before. 

They seated themselves at table. Fabrice 
was calm, but more serious and thoughtful than 
usual, and also more inclined to converse. He 
seemed to have a dread of silence. He spoke 
of the shortening days, the beauty of the even- 
ing, of some recent exhibitions of pictures, of 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 259 

the Swiss landscapes and the impossibility of 
a painter doing justice by them. 

After dinner they went down into the gar- 
den. Although autumn was upon them, the 
night was warm and splendid beneath a sky 
that was bright with stars. The light was suffi- 
cient to permit Marcelle to drive her hoop 
along the narrow pathways of the garden. 
She was amusing herself by thus displaying 
her address before her father, who was watch- 
ing her from his seat upon a bench close at 
hand, — and at times, too, he turned his glance 
toward heaven. Beatrice, quite worn out, had 
seated herself at a little distance, in the dense 
shadow of a clump of trees. 

Presently Fabrice gently called to his daugh- 
ter : 

“Marcelle !” 

The little girl came running to him. 

“I am afraid that you will take cold. You 
must go in.” 

“Right away?” 

“Yes, my child; I would rather you should.” 

“Well, father! I will go in.” 

He lifted her upon his knee. “That is right ; 
be good. You will always be a good girl, will 
you not?” 

“Yes, father; I promise.” 

“Even when I am no longer here?” 


26 o 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


“Yes; but why are you going away?" 

“I need rest so, my poor child !” 

“Suppose you take me with you, father?” 

“I would like to!” softly said Fabrice. 

“Take me, then !” 

“It is not possible, my darling. Come, go in 
now.” 

“Will you be a long time away?” the child 
persisted. 

“For some time — I cannot say exactly. Now 
go, my daughter.” He kissed her. “Present or 
absent,” he said, “you will love me just the 
same, will you not?” 

“Always just the same, — I promise that I 
will.” She left him to go and give a kiss to 
Beatrice; then returning to her father, she 
whispered : “She is crying !” 

He held her hand in his, and after a short 
silence : “ Love your mother, too, ” he gravely 
said to her. 

“I will,” replied the child. She went thought- 
fully away and entered the house. 

At the same moment Fabrice heard a stifled 
groan, and Beatrice, emerging from the shadow, 
came and threw herself upon her knees at his 
feet. 

“Don’t, Beatrice, — don’t !” he said to her in 
a tone of reproach, at the same time trying to 
raise her to her feet. 


AN ARTIST'S HONOR. 


261 


“Ah !” she exclaimed among her sobs, “Christ 
pardoned !” 

“But — I forgive you. Did you not hear 
what I said to my daughter but now? I know 
that you have suffered much of late, — besides, 
there are times in life when one is disposed to 
indulgence. Arise, — sit here at my side.” 

Irresolute, stupefied, she seated herself on 
the bench beside Fabrice. 

“Beatrice,” he continued, “you have my par- 
don. Is there anything more that you would 
have? Speak.” 

“I would have — My God ! that you should 
live !” 

“Are you certain ? Are you very certain that 
you would not despise me to-morrow, should I 
yield to your prayer to-day?” 

“Despise you? How could I? Do I not 
know that you are free — that your word has 
been restored to you?” 

“Would you never say, Beatrice, that in my 
place another man would have shown himself 
more delicate, more scrupulous upon the point 
of honor?” 

“My God! my friend, I beseech you, do not 
crush me ! Have pity upon me ! It is all so 
hard to boar! I, who love you so — and who 
do npt even dare to tell you of it — because you 
would think that I was lying to you in order to 


262 AN ARTIST' S HONOR. 

save you from death, — and yet, here in the pres- 
ence of Almighty God — it is true that I love 
you, love you dearly !” And weeping bitterly, 
she wildly raised her arms toward the dark 
star-set heavens. 

A long silence ensued, broken only by the 
sound of her weeping; then, in a voice of 
deepest emotion, Fabrice said : 

“I believe you !” 

She grasped his hand. 

“Yes,” he continued, “that word that I have 
so long hungered to hear from your lips — at 
last I hear it, — and I feel that it comes from 
your heart. You love me! The thunder might 
descend upon me from the sky, — still would I 
none the less give thanks to Heaven— for this 
short moment that has so long been the object 
of my dearest dreams !” 

She kissed his hands, sobbing. 

“Beatrice,” he said, gently disengaging him- 
self, “it is all so sudden! You see that I have 
lost my calmness — almost my reason. Allow 
me to collect my thoughts a little, I beg you. 
You would have too much reason to distrust a 
resolution conceived under the influence of such 
emotion. Come — return to your drawing- 
room ; I will come there to you immediately, 
and we will discuss the subject seriously to- 
gether.” 


AN ARTIST" S HONOR. 


263 


She leaned upon his arm, and thus he con- 
ducted her to the bottom of the steps. While 
she hesitated to leave him, and was looking ear- 
nestly into his eyes, he drew her to him and 
kissed her upon her hair. 

“Immediately!” he said, with a smile. 

She seated herself at an open window in the 
drawing-room and watched him as he paced the 
garden walks. For a long time he walked 
there, back and forth, with lingering steps. At 
times he would disappear beneath the trees, 
and *then Beatrice would rise in affright until he 
again came forth from the darkness. He had 
been lost to her sight for some minutes, when 
suddenly the, glass front of the atelier was 
illuminated by a flash ; at the same instant a 
pistol-shot resounded in the silence of the night. 

The young woman uttered a loud cry, raised 
her arms toward heaven, and fell senseless to 
the floor. 

******* 

It was Mme. d’Aymaret, who was sent for at 
once, who found upon the table of the studio 
this note bearing Beatrice’s address, to whom 
she gave it : 

“Beatrice, I would have spared you this — 
but I dared not yield to weakness. Yes, I be- 
lieve that at last your heart has turned toward 


264 


AN ARTIST’S HONOR. 


me — yes, I believe that you do love me. But 
would you love me fo-morrow, living by favor 
of the man who wronged me mortally? I do 
not believe it, and I die.” 

It was never suspected that Jacques Fabrice 
had died by his own hand. The papers gave 
out that the artist had killed himself accident- 
ally, as he was drawing the charge of his pistols 
previous to a journey. 

Beatrice adopted a life of religion in the 
Benedictine convent at Auteuil, where she 
could personally attend to the completion of 
Marcelle’s education. 


THE END. 









































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